


Writer's Block in Atlanta

by Loser_Love



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:33:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 27,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28030080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loser_Love/pseuds/Loser_Love
Summary: William Denbrough, popular horror novelist, meets a peculiar and interesting man feeding birds in the park.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris
Comments: 59
Kudos: 50





	1. The “Write” Time & Place

William paced rigidly across the autumn leaf-coated sidewalk; he was frustrated, a complete and utter block in his writing. Each thud of his dress shoes accented by a fine, subtle crunch, he looked at the variety of colors above, still on the trees’ branches, then below to the dull, dead leaves beneath his soles. Back to the sky, he noticed how starkly the leaves stood out against the graying sky, another soon-to-be rainy day in Atlanta, he presumed. Bill scrunched his nose in distaste, it had rained so often in this godforsaken city since he had moved here, _and moved here for what?_ Bill thought, throwing his hands up in a frustrated gesture. “For what?” he repeated aloud, “I’ve got nothing, I’m stuck, again,” he grumbled. He had initially come to Atlanta to get a feel for the city, as his upcoming novel was to be set there, but with moving came much frustration and a break from routine, which Bill hated very much.

He shoved his hands violently into his coat and looked ahead to see a bench, a man around his age sat there, already taking up one side. He was feeding the birds who had surrounded his feet. The man looked at peace, William admittedly envied him greatly. He lightened his footsteps and shortened his stride, “Do you mind if I juh-juh—” Bill couldn’t manage to spit out his sentence, which was rare to say the least, as the other man’s eyes met his own. “Join you,” Bill finished in a hushed tone, smiling sheepishly, embarrassed. The man’s caramel colored eyes softened, glowering up at Bill as he smiled, “Of course, sit,” he said, patting the spot beside him on the bench. Bill obliged, fishing the pocketbook from the inside of his jacket and a pen. “Thu-thanks,” “No problem, What’s that for?” He said, nodding towards the pocketbook. “I’m uh- I’m a writer, it’s for my notes, I can puh-puh-...puh—” Bill’s brows furrowed, growing frustrated once more. He had been told he had a chronic stutter as a child but he was certain he’d grown out of it, and even if that were not the case, why was it making an appearance after all of these years? “Put it away, if you prefer.” The other shook his head, his dark blonde curls becoming slightly displaced as he did, “No, that’s okay. A writer? Have you published anything yet?” 

“A couple things, yes.”  
“Such as?”  
“The Black Rapids and Attic Room are my most puh-popular.”  
“The Black R-.. William Denbrough?” 

Bill perked up, laughing awkwardly and holding up his hands in mock defense, “You got me.” The other man grabbed the glasses he had carefully folded into his button-down pocket and slid them on to see Bill better, blinking a couple times as he adjusted. “Have yuh-you read Black Rapids?” Bill inquired skeptically, quickly becoming anxious from the eye contact. The man tore his gaze away, a light blush across his face, “Yes, I have.” “And? What’d you think?” There was a pause, Bill glanced over to see the man biting his lip, making the small smirk he had slightly crooked. “Well…?” he reiterated expectantly. The curly-headed man adjusted his glasses and exhaled sharply through his nose as if restraining a laugh, “It was good until the ending, that was just awful.” 

Bill sunk against the back of the bench and let out an audible groan. The man tugged at his cardigan awkwardly and mustered a snicker. “Sorry, I’m sure you get that a ton, huh?” The author gave a begrudging nod. “People just don’t see the buh-beauty in realism,” he murmured, his voice oozing with loathing. The other rolled his eyes and tossed out some bird seed, having noticed the crowd was beginning to disperse.

“That’s the shittiest excuse I’ve ever heard for killing off every single character in every book you’ve written.”  
“Not every book!”  
“Okay, fine. Except for the two love interests in The Glowing.”

“Exactly I—” Bill blinked a couple times in surprise, “You’ve read more than one?” “Of your books? I’ve read most of them. But the feedback is the same for all of them.” William scoffed incredulously, “Okay, nuh-name one besides The Glowing, The Black Rapids, and Attic Room.” The dark blonde looked at him quizzically before rolling his eyes with a sigh, “The Dark and Werewolves of Dawn, those are the only other two.”

“And you’ve read all of them?”  
“No, I’m only halfway through The Dark, but I’m betting that they all die too, huh?”

Bill didn’t dignify that question with a response, they both knew the answer well enough. 

“Wuh-well it’s not easy to just tie up loose ends when the heroes are meant to fail, huh-how am I supposed to make them survive? It doesn’t make suh-sense.” 

“Maybe stop writing plots where the heroes are destined to fail, start focusing more on the relationships between the characters, it will make people more attached to the characters and be even more affected if you decide to kill off one or two.”

Bill stared in a stunned silence, wide eyed as the man smiled smugly, simply looking back to the birds at his feet, fiddling with his burnt orange scarf. 

“Wuh-what’s your name?”  
“Stanley Uris, call me Stan.”  
“Do you like coffee, Stan?”  
“I don’t mind it, but I definitely prefer tea.”

Bill found himself staring at how calmly the other’s lips formed each word, no matter how blunt or smug. How gently he flung out each handful of seed, his relaxed posture as he leaned back, a leg crossed over his knee, cardigan lying comfortably on his shoulders and draping just slightly over his knuckles at the sleeves.

“I’ll be honest, thu-that’s probably the most detailed, harshest cruh-criticism I’ve ever gotten,” He started. Stan perked up and his neck snapped over so he was looking at Bill, “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, I do really enjoy your books!” he said, waving a hand awkwardly in an apologetic gesture. “No, No,” Bill murmured, shaking his head, he scrunched his nose and he closed his eyes briefly, trying to form the words before he said them. “Thu-that’s not what I’m guh-getting at. Duh-do you want to come to the café two blocks down with me?” 

Stanley ogled at the author, surprised, “Uh,” he slowly and meticulously folded up the paper bag in his lap closed. “Sorry,” he whispered in a sweet, gentle tone to the birds, bending down towards them for a moment. “Sure, that sounds good,” He finally responded, standing slowly as the birds scattered.


	2. A Study of Stanley Uris

Stanley sat down across from him, hands cupped around a warm cup of tea, still steeping, “You didn’t have to pay for me, y’know, I make enough money without writing multiple successful novels.” Bill nearly jumped out of his skin, throwing his hands up in a panic “No, no that’s not what I meant at all! It’s juh-juh— Ugh— Just that I asked yuh-you here and I thu-thought—” He stopped, noticing Stan was grinning back at him, a hand quickly moving over his mouth to muffle laughter. “It’s okay, William, I was teasing, alright? Unclench.” William exhaled heavily, relief washing over him as the panic subsided, “Cuh-call me Bill.” Stan blinked slowly and nodded, bobbing the tea bag in its place, “On it, Bill.” 

The brunette flashed a grin at the blonde, taking a sip of his latte with a content sigh. “Wuh-what do you do for work?” Bill asked, setting down his coffee; Stan looked up, “Well, I just began a job as a part-time accountant, but I’m hoping to get to full time soon, just… not easy jumping into it straight out of college.” Bill watched as the other man carefully set down his tea on a coaster, adjusting it so it was perfectly in the center, then moving the coaster to line up perfectly with the napkin dispenser, the process took nearly two minutes. Stan went visibly stiff as he felt Bill’s eyes on him, “Sorry,” he muttered timidly, “I need to have things a certain way, otherwise everything else gets—” “Duh-difficult to pay attention to?” the author finished, knowing the statement as if he had heard it before. Stan paused, looking at Bill briefly and nodding slowly, “Yeah, I can’t focus if it isn’t done.” “I understand,” Bill responded, but Bill didn’t think he did. Somewhere in his heart told him this was all too familiar, routine, even, but he hadn’t a clue, in the current moment, what Stan felt.

“So, I was curious if you were looking for another job, even just a suh-secondary job.”  
“I’m going to need more details then that, Denborough.”

Bill couldn’t help but chuckle abashedly, running his fingers through his hair shakily. He _did_ need a new editor, but how would the King Publishing feel about him recruiting someone with minimal to no experience, an accountant, who he met in the park during his setting study? He drummed his fingers thoughtfully for a brief moment before shaking his head. Who gives a fuck.

“I need an editor, your ideas are guh-good, you can set all the deadlines as luh-long as the publishing cuh-company aup-approves them. It pays well, you control your hours.”  
“You… want me to edit your next novel for you?”  
“I’d luh-like you to, yes.”  
“You’re… sure? A random accountant that you just met an hour ago?”

Bill nodded firmly, folding one arm over the other as he rested them on the table. “I wuh-want someone to bring a nuh-new perspective to my books, I tuh-think they just keep hiring my yes-men because I’m muh-making them money. I wuh-want to make books for both muh-my readers and I am huh-happy with. Al-also, It’s set in Atlanta and I’m ruh-really having a difficult tuh-tough time adjusting to it here.”

“Who said I knew anything more about Atlanta?”  
“Duh-do you not?”

Stanley cracked a smile“I’ve lived here for 3 years, but I thought I’d make your presumptuous ass panic again for a second.” William snickered quietly, “I huh-have a feeling that’s something you enjoy doing a lot, huh?” “Oh, tremendously—” There was a pause, Stan sipping at his tea before delicately recentering it. 

“You said it pays well?”  
“It does, yes, it’s stuh-stipend too, so you’ll guh-get paid the same regardless of the payload for the week.”  
“Interesting...”

The brunette grew nervous as he realized just how much he wanted Stanley to say yes. He was alarmed by how much this was affecting him, he crossed his hands into the bend of his arms to hide the shaking they had begun. His lip twitched anxiously, maybe there was some other way to sweeten the deal, aside from what he had already said. 

“I’ll provide housing, since yuh-you probably want to be living nuh-near me during the editing process, and I’ll puh-pay for your rides to the accounting office if needed.”  
“You really want to hire me that bad?”

Bill turned a shade of pink and inhaled sharply. “I juh-just know you’re the perfect pick for the juh-job. I’ve guh-got a really good feeling about you.” Stanley chuckled, sipping again at his tea, holding it longer in his hands this time, his eyes lingering somewhere on Bill’s person, “Sounds good. When do I start?” 

The author squirmed about in his seat excitedly, hardly able to contain himself. “Huh-how’s tonight?” “Tonight?” Stanley echoed thoughtfully before nodding, “Yeah, I’m free tonight.” “Awh-awesome.” They both took a swift gulp of their respective drinks, realizing they had been looking each other in the eye for a prolonged amount of time. “I do have a roommate, though, would she be able to move with me?” Stan inquired, suddenly returning to a tone of apprehension. Bill bit the inside of his cheek, knowing full well the King Publishing would never pay for that. “Of course she can, thu-that works out well, actually, the apartment nuh-next to mine is muh-meant for two.” Bill nodded firmly, mentally reviewing his bank statement which he had checked yesterday afternoon, he could see the pocket cash fading as they spoke. 

“Whu-What’s your roommate like?”  
“Oh her name’s Patricia, she’s a riot.” Stanley said rather flatly, “She’s a smartass, but I do love her.”

 _Love her…_ Bill gnawed at his lip, picking at his cuticles as he moved his hands beneath the table onto his thighs. “Oh, are you two dating?” Stanley snorted and motioned at his own person, taking a moment to hold up his scarf.

“Me? Dating Patty? No, Never ever. What do you take me for?”

William didn’t quite understand what Stan was implying by the vague gestures but he didn’t understand the wave of relief he felt either. “Cuh-cool, sorry to pry, I wuh-was just curious.” Stan chuckled, glancing from his tea to Bill with a small, relaxed smile, “Uhuh.” The tone was almost incredulous, which made Bill’s alarms really go off. What did he not understand? “Yuh-yeah,” he affirmed awkwardly. Stan shook his head softly and went back to sipping his tea. 

As Bill had quickly decided, Stanley Uris was a bizarre person, who seemed to know much more than he would ever let on. That’s probably why the author was so drawn to him, why he could, in theory, study Stan for hours without getting bored. He was interesting, and Bill, at the moment, could only think about him. This was a fairly new feeling to him, at least he thought so, such fervent interest in a singular person, not that he was complaining. There was a certain bliss to just observing and learning about Stan Uris. 

He watched the dark blonde man push back his curls carefully, as they had crowded over his eyes when he looked down at the table. How gently he rested his hands back on the knee of his leg that was crossed over the other. He looked almost too perfect. He caught Bill’s eyes after some time of staring and cleared his throat.

“Is everything alright?”  
“I— uh... Yuh-yes?”  
“You’ve been staring for some time, do you need to rest before I come over?”

Bill blinked a couple times, his eyes taking their focus off Stanley as he realized how long he had just been fixated on the man across the table. His ears burned a hot red as he coughed awkwardly, “Muh-maybe that’s a good idea,” he said, wondering how he had managed to not scare off Stan after staring at him for— Bill looked at the clock— _12 straight minutes?_ The author shook his head at himself, maybe he was just zoning out, he thought. But he knew that wasn’t true. 

“Write down your address, I’ll be there at 6.”

Bill fished out his notepad and scribbled down his address, hopefully in nice enough handwriting for Stanley to read. Stan tore off a blank strip of the paper right as William set it down, he scribbled down something and handed it to Bill. _A phone number_ , Bill observed. “Call me if I’m not there when I said,” “Yuh-you betcha, Stan.”


	3. Shared Roots

Bill glared harshly at his laptop screen, the computer placed on his chest as he laid, neck craned, arms wrenched in the darkness of his room. Stuck, mid-sentence no less, the author was needlessly frustrated. His character, Derek Chronister, was the first character he had ever written that was attracted to men. Derek was bisexual, like Bill had realized he was over the course of the last two years or so of his career. 

It was a risky move, writing Derek like he was, even if there had been strides towards equality in recent years, 2002 was no time to be out of the closet, and Bill didn’t plan on outing himself. How would someone who wasn’t attracted to men write about a man being in love with another man? He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a huff of frustration. Maybe this was a bad idea to begin with.

There was a knock at his apartment door. Bill bolted up right stiffly, accidentally tossing his laptop onto the floor. “Fuck!” he cursed hoarsely, hoisting the laptop back onto his lap and inspecting it briefly. It was fine, at least it looked like it. He looked at the corner of the screen for the time. _Shit, it was 5:58._ “Wuh-one second!” Bill shrieked, just loud enough Stanley should have been able to hear.

He grabbed a mess of clothes that had crowded around his hamper and hastily shoved it in his closet, grabbing some sweatpants and tugging them on as he haphazardly kicked in the last of his mess, nearly stumbling into the wall twice in the process. He grabbed a flannel and pulled it over his white undershirt and folded his reading glasses into its neck. He closed the closet with a click and set his laptop on his desk, turning on the light, then straightening his blankets. He hoped this wouldn’t bother Stanley too much, but everything else seemed neat enough. He also hoped that damn stutter would cut out. William slid on his house slippers, they were turtles, that was his little brother’s favorite animal. He didn’t remember much about his little brother, except that he died when Bill was around 12, and again, he was fond of turtles.

The brunette scrambled over to the door, unlocking the knob, then sliding the chain lock loose. He opened the door. “Stan! Yuh-you sure are punctual,” he said, out of breath. Stan flashed him a smirk and nodded, “I am, thanks for noticing. You’re disheveled,” “I am, thu-thanks for noticing,” Bill retorted snarkily. “You’re so welcome!” the other man chimed, walking into the apartment past Bill, reaching up briefly to mess up his brunette locks and pat his shoulder playfully. For some reason, this action dazed Bill for a few seconds, he blinked a couple times, trying to regain his composure and leaned against the wall. He heard Stan stop walking, “I—don’t know why I did that, I’m sorry William, I can- I can go if you’d like.” Bill turned to see Stan flushed with embarrassment, staring down at the wooden flooring. 

“Nuh-no, No! It’s okay, I really didn’t mind,” Bill blurted, straightening his back. He took a step forward, patting Stanley’s shoulder firmly, making him jump just slightly. “You’re sure?” Stan said, patting Bill’s arm lightly, his gloved hand lingering just long enough for a butterfly-like sensation to build in Bill’s stomach. “I’m sure, ruh-relax,” he assured. 

Stan nodded slowly and looked around, they were beside the kitchen, in the living room area. He stepped away from Bill to sit on the couch, leaning over to adjust a misaligned stack of books and journals, he pulled out the journals and stacked them atop the books, largest on bottom. Bill cringed internally at the thought of how disorganized and stressful his house may be to Stan, he wanted nothing more than Stan to be comfortable. Once Stan completed his task he patted the books firmly, four times, before looking up at Bill with a sheepish smile, “Nice place you’ve got here, it’s big!” Bill let out a sigh of relief, hoping Stan meant it, “Thu-thank you. I had a huh-hard time finding a place in the city, duh-definitely got lucky when this place guh-got put on the muh-market.” _Fuck, why was this stutter so persistent?_ No matter how hard Bill pushed through his sentences, it remained.

“Would you like anything to druh-drink? I’ve got coffee I just bruh-br— No, you don’t like coffee much. I have some green tea I could make you?” He looked back at Stan, who flashed him a grin, “Tea would be great, thanks Bill.” The brunette nodded and walked into the kitchen, opening the cupboard where he kept his coffee grounds and pulling out a box of teabags, he slipped on his glasses, skimming the instructions as if he could really fuck up brewing green tea that bad. He shifted about in the kitchen, pulling out his kettle and setting it on the stove, following the instructions from the box strictly, he wanted there to be no chance he could mess it up. He heard Stan get up from the couch, pacing across the living room rug. He leaned on the kitchen’s entry frame, eyes now resting on the half empty, large pot of coffee in the corner. 

“Is that decaf?”  
“God nuh-no, why would I drink cuh-coffee decaf?”  
“Because you just had a large Americano earlier this afternoon.”

Bill paused what he was doing for a moment, a smug smile plastered on his face, he looked back at Stan for a brief moment, “Yuh-yes, I did, and?” He saw Stan twitch just slightly, his arms now crossed. “That’s incredibly unhealthy,” “Yuh-you’re having a second tea, aren’t you?” “Tea isn’t nearly as bad when it comes to caffeine!” “Puh-potato puh-puh-tahto.” Bill turned back to his cabinets, fishing out a mug he had gotten from his father’s will, it was his grandmother’s originally;‘Derry, Maine,’ a Simple Town’, it read, a graphic of a beaver beneath the text. He could hear a huff of a sigh from Stanley, “Your hands are shaking, Bill, no more.” Then he heard liquid hitting the metal of his sink. He spun around to see the curly-headed man dumping the remainder of the coffee down the sink, he gaped at him. “Stuh-Stan! What the hell!” “You’ll survive.” 

Bill’s hands _were_ shaking, but the author presumed it to be mostly nerves. He felt unreasonably cautious near Stanley, he didn’t have the capacity to even imagine doing anything wrong in front of that man. Still, the _audacity_ any person must have to visit someone and empty their coffee pot into the sink? That’s what Bill’s grandfather would’ve called ‘gumption’, and if it were anyone else, Bill would’ve called it ‘asking for an ass-kicking’. Anyone else. But it wasn’t, It was Stanley Uris, and for some reason, Bill couldn’t find himself critical of anything he did. _That_ is why he would be the perfect editor. Everything he did just made sense, no questions asked, Bill told himself, trying to rationalize the decision that could potentially ruin his career if he were wrong.

“Earth to William Denbrough, your kettle is whistling,” Stan said, above his average volume. Bill realized he had moved closer now, sitting on the island of his kitchen, hands neatly settled on his knees. Bill laughed at himself awkwardly, lifting the kettle from the burner and pouring carefully into the cup. He then grabbed the mug by its rim and set it beside Stanley’s hip on the island. “Cuh-careful, it’s hot,” “Are you sure? It looks cooled off to me,” the other replied in the bluntest tone. Bill wouldn’t have been able to pick up the sarcasm if it weren’t for him just pouring the scalding liquid. He rolled his eyes playfully, “I’m shu-sure.” 

Stan snickered quietly, looking down at the mug, dipping his neck downward to do so. “Derry, Maine a— You’re from Derry, Maine?” Bill perked up, “I am, yuh-yeah, why?” “I think I’m from around there too…” Stan trailed off, carefully lifting the mug to inspect it. “You think?” “Uhuh, I’m not sure though, I’ve got a difficult time remembering my childhood. I think it’s uh— something to do with how I was raised, if you get what I mean.” The brunette nodded sympathetically, “I understand, I duh-don’t remember much of it. I’ve guh-got some memory loss issues- nuh-not sure what from, might buh-be a wreck I had when I fuh-first started cuh-college.” Stan exhaled through his nose, bemused, “Both from Derry, or atleast close, and neither of us remember a thing? What are the odds?” Bill chuckled and hoisted himself up on the bar across from Stanley, nodding, “Cruh-crazy. I wuh-wonder if we went to school together?” Stan raised his brows, humming thoughtfully, “Wouldn’t that be something?” “Shu-sure would.”

Just like that, a wisp of a memory played through Bill’s head. A crowded hallway, curly hair and a cream cable knit cardigan. A lingering embrace, something left unsaid. Cackling and loud footsteps, a blur of gym shorts and hawaiian print in passing, and a shared look with a handsome boy that meant more than Bill could ever imagine.

“Bill? Are you sure you’re okay?” Stan said, clearing his throat, “You keep kinda… checking out?” The author’s ears burned red and he waved his hand dismissively, “I’m fuh-fine, juh-just stuck on this stupid book. Cuh-can’t figure out the right approach for something.” Stan sipped cautiously at his hot drink, pulling one knee up so that his heel was on the edge of the counter, he looked to Bill, who shrugged with indifference at the action. “Well,” he said, pushing up the sleeves of his cardigan before setting down the mug gingerly, “Let’s get to business then, what’s the ‘something’ you’re trying to portray.” 

Bill opened his mouth before closing it quickly, he did not think this through, _at all_ and it was just now hitting him like a brick being thrown directly at his head. He froze up. “Bill?” Stan inquired, his tone soft, concerned. “I’m truh-trying to, uh, add suh-some more inclusivity in my novels,” “More?” Stan echoed, Bill realized that his books were already fairly diverse, at least in terms of race, culture, and religion, he always prefered it that way. 

“Yuh-yeah, so, the main character, Duh-Derek, I’m truh-trying to write him as Bisexual, with a muh-male love interest.” Stan perked up as Bill looked back to him, seeping anxiety through his sweaty palms that were planted firmly on the edge of the counter. Stan flashed him a toothy grin before taking another sip, “That’s all?” he asked nonchalantly, “That’s cool, I mean, that you’re trying to include other sexualities.” Bill nodded slowly, taken aback by how unbothered Stan was acting. 

“Do you have any experience with that type of attraction?” Stan asked suddenly, gaining an uncertain tone towards the end. The phrasing was awkward. Bill bit his lip, folding his hands together. He thought about the handsome boy he couldn’t remember the face of. He thought of— Stan. He looked to his lap, patting his lap anxiously in a drumming pattern “I thu-think so, but I’m pruh-pretty new to the whole accepting puh-part of it all.” He heard Stan’s feet hit the ground as he shifted his weight off of the island gracefully, a hand sliding gently on top of his own, it squeezed his right briefly before pulling away. “Well, this is a good first step. I’m proud of you, Bill. And trust me, I won’t have any issue helping you write anything like that, I—” Stan swallowed audibly, pushing his hands into his pockets, “I’m gay, so it works out just fine, doesn’t it?”


	4. Nothing Truly Changes

After an hour and a half of brainstorming, Bill finally had it: the perfect way to introduce Derek Chronister’s boyfriend. Not without effort, of course, and not just his own this time. He couldn’t have done it without Stanley. He looked to his clock—9:37 PM— time passed fast when he was with his new editor. The author clicked away at his keyboard, they had moved to his bedroom by now, Stanley laid on his side, facing Bill as he typed.

“Thu-thank you, Stan, I mean it.”

“Don’t thank me for doing my job, dumbass…” Stanley yawned, stretching. He sprawled his lanky limbs out, knuckles just barely touching William’s wall. Bill smiled quietly to himself, yawning as well and scrunching his nose, “Duh-don’t do that while I’m working, yuh-you know it’s cun-contagious.” “I’m so very sorry,” Stan responded flatly, the author was now able to recognize Stanley’s sarcasm fairly well, so he didn’t take the tone sensitively. Something felt right, Stanley laying across his bed, both of them having another cup of tea as he typed away, stopping at certain points for spelling or wording. Stan was thumbing through his handheld thesaurus, every once and a while he’d read out a work and remark an opinion about it.

\-------- 

It was **August 28, 1993** , Bill Denbrough was scribbling away at his journal with a black fountain pen, a gift from his great aunt. Stan Uris, a close friend, perhaps more, and his most trusted editor was sprawled across his bed, a thesaurus held above his head. “Jugular,” Stanley began, patting a thumb against the page above him, “It’s okay, but it doesn’t roll off the tongue, but it’s most definitely better than guttural, I hate that word.”

Bill paid no mind to the commentary, his curly-headed friend often did this until tasked with something, he could go for hours, content reading out words that piqued his interest. He heard the pages unfurl from where Stan had been holding them beneath a thumb, quickly he stopped on another page and snorted, “Woolpack, I like that one. Much better than darkness or veil…” he trailed off. 

“Bill, you’ve been at it for a couple hours, haven’t you? Do you really have to do this all in one sitting?”  
“Wuh-Well I want to get it submitted as suh-soon as puh-possible.”  
“Wouldn’t it be best to space it out? Have time to think it over before submitting it?”  
“Aren’t yuh-you guh-gonna do that puh-part for me?”  
“Think for you? I guess; That always ends up being my job, doesn’t it?”

Bill glanced over, chuckling, Stan’s body now halfway upside down and off the bed as he let his waist hold him. Stan flashed him a grin, his curls draping down towards the carpet. “I wuh-wouldn’t say always,” “Fine, fine, most days,” Stan retorted, before pushing himself back onto the bed, flipping over and sliding off. “I do think you should take a break, Bill,” he said, his tone changing to one of concern. The young author felt arms wrap gently around the back of his neck, and the light pressure of Stan’s chin resting on the top of his head. The brunette leaned back, exhaling slowly, these were the moments that implied a ‘perhaps more’ to their relationship, but it was wholly left unspoken between the two of them.

Lingering embraces, gentle touches, and the one Bill remembered the most, a brief kiss on New Years, not on the lips, Stan had kissed his cheek. He kissed his forehead in return, of course. It had always been this way between them, ever since highschool had started, not that Bill was complaining, he wouldn’t have it any other way. The nagging feeling to question it was always there, but he was scared of losing what they did have. Surely Stan wouldn’t just drop it if he asked, right? Bill’s heart began to race as the urge climbed back up his throat as it always did, he shouldn’t have thought about it.

He cleared his throat firmly and placed his hands on Stan’s arms, sighing, “I guh-guess I could take a bruh-break.” “Fantastic!” Stan nodded, satisfied and snatched up Bill’s pen, setting it gingerly in it’s holder. “Cuh-can I ask you suh-something th—” The author cut himself, but it was too late. His darling editor’s eyes filled with worry immediately as he pulled away from Bill and hoisted onto the brunette’s desk, “I—… Of course, Bill, is everything okay?” His throat went tight and dry as he looked back up at Stanley, hot tears pricking at his eyes as he tried to muster an excuse to brush this all off. Nothing. 

“Stuh-Stan what am I to you? What are we?”

Stan opened his mouth, but then slowly closed it, holding his hand out to Bill slowly. “What do you want us to be?” The dark blonde squeezed Bill’s hand as he took it, his palms were clammy. “I just know I ruh-really like huh-how we are, buh-but I wuh-wouldn’t mind buh-being closer?” the bottom of his vision began to blur. Stan sighed softly, hoping off the desk and wrapping his arms around Bill, “Closer? I can do closer,” Bill inhaled sharply, trying his best not to shed a tear or whimper. “Yuh-you mean it? Whu-what would we tell the others?” “That we’re dating, I guess. But I think they already assume that.” “Thu-they _what_ ?” 

\-------- 

Back to **2002** , Bill stopped typing abruptly as he heard a quiet whimper. “Yuh-you okay, Stan?” He murmured, looking over to see Stan fast asleep, thesaurus beside his face and Bill’s pillow tightly clung to his chest. The author relaxed and stood, stretching his legs. He pulled a blanket up to Stanley’s elbow and patted the editor’s back. He grabbed his notepad from his jacket, writing out in a sharpie from his desk:

_I’ll be in the living room, sleep well, Stan. If you need someone to drive you back to your place, let me know, you shouldn’t drive tired. - Bill_

Bill smiled, setting the note at the corner of his desk, near the head of the bed. He walked over to the corner of the room and flicked on a lamp, before turning off the overhead light. A warm glow filled the room, the light gently accentuating Stanley’s facial features. The author stopped for a moment, admiring it in the dim light. Maybe he did like Stanley, but that wasn’t so wrong, was it? Who wouldn’t?

He shut the door gently and shuffled his way into the living room. This was the exact moment, after glancing down at his feet, that Bill realized he had been wearing his bright green turtle slippers the entire time. His face flushed in red as he stared holes into his own house shoes. “God, he must think I’m such a joke,” Bill muttered, startling himself with the coherence of his sentence. No stutter? Finally. He sat down on his couch and pulled out an old sketchbook; he hadn’t drawn in some time, but if he wrote for one more minute he’d get brain rot. 

He started to sketch a circle as the base, it was light, flowy, it felt good to draw. He was always one for portraits, and the only person who came to mind was— of course — Stan Uris. He started with the jawline, making sure it was defined, but ended on a nice curve, not too sharp. The mess of curls was next, Bill always enjoyed drawing curls. Next, his nose and eyes, and by that extent, he decided to include his glasses. They complimented the shape of his face nicely. Bill compared the proportions of the face with his thumb carefully, trying to think of what he had observed today. He certainly wasn’t going to go in there and check for himself, that’d be plain creepy.

Was drawing Stan, while he sleeps in the other room, perhaps a bit creepy? Bill flushed and groaned, setting down the sketchbook on the coffee table, then laying back on his couch. He closed his eyes, and all he saw was a replay of every prolonged touch, every moment of eye contact with Stan from today. He had just met Stanley Uris, and Bill Denbrough knew he was already absolutely smitten. It wasn’t bad though, having a crush was refreshing, in a way. Bill just needed to decide what to do with his feelings. 

He grabbed the pillow at the corner of the couch with his ankles, reaching down to grab it. He hugged it to his chest and closed his eyes. Maybe an hour or so’s rest would allow his mind to slow down so he could actually think it through, by then Stan would surely be awake and maybe he could drive him home. “Yeah,” he said, completely to himself, “Give it a rest big guy.” He said this in reference to his own brain, chuckling to himself as he knocked playfully at his own head. Just a couple hours rest really wouldn’t hurt.


	5. Walking off The Woman

“Bill?” 

A timid, shaky voice barely broke the barrier of the author’s slumber. He stretched his leg’s stiffly, he squinted, trying to prepare himself for the anticipated morning light. No light came, it was still dark. He opened his eyes slowly, Stanley’s figure seemingly appearing in front of the coffee table, illuminated by the light of the kitchen behind him. He blinked a couple more times, startled but trying not to further distress his friend, who was now visibly shaking, his hands shoved uncomfortably in his cardigan, stiff at the joint. “Stan? Wuh-what’s wrong?” Bill rasped, sitting up from his slouched, uncomfortable position where he had fallen asleep on the couch. 

The curly-headed fellow cleared his evidently sore, snotty throat, “I had this really fucked up dream, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to wake you up but I can’t bring myself down from it.” Bill’s gaze softened as he shifted, patting the cushion beside himself, “Nuh-no, it’s okay.” His friend approached him slowly, his movements rigid, cautious, as if he were worried he was still living out the nightmare. He sat down directly at Bill’s side, pressing himself absentmindedly against the writer. Bill shifted, letting an arm rest behind Stan on the cushion, craning his neck to look at his editor in a way that didn’t crowd him too terribly. 

“Yuh-you’re okay, duh-do you want to talk a-about it?” the dark blonde stared holes into Bill for a moment, his mouth gaping open, then closed in a pattern as he struggled to find the words. Bill reached up, patting his back gently, rubbing it in a circle against his shoulder blades, the movement of comfort was instinctual, natural, almost.   
“Please don’t laugh,” Stan started, his eyes wide; Bill could see now how swollen the area around them was, he had been crying. “I wouldn’t eh-ever!” He assured, giving the other a gentle grin. 

“There was this woman… she was disproportionate, thin, crooked. She had really sharp, long teeth, kinda like those freaky fish. When she moved it made this almost— well— like, a skittering noise? Similar to what I’d imagine a scorpion to sound like if it were human sized. And she was everywhere I looked, everywhere I ran. Every time I saw her, I heard this shrill shrieking noise. Her mouth would extend away from her jaw if she got too close, like a weird fucked up tooth tube and it kept reaching for me, a-and—”

Stan choked out a whimper of sob, Bill continued to rub his back, nodding sympathetically. “Thu-that sounds really scary, but I pruh-promise you’re safe,” the brunette said, nearly in a whisper. The other relaxed just slightly, slumping further against Bill’s side. “Yuh-you’re here, in muh-my apartment, Nuh-no fucked up luh-ladies here, juh-just me ‘n you, Stuh-Stan.” 

Stanley sighed heavily, his air shaking just slightly as it exited his frame. He leaned back, into Bill’s hand, taking a moment to rub at the tears he fought back with his cardigan, rubbing each eye exactly four times, Bill took notice but made no comment. “Thanks, Bill,” he exhaled quietly, patting the author’s knee, “Usually Patty helps me through these, sorry you had to deal with it.” Bill shook his head and smiled, “Nuh-no, I don’t mind, I pruh-promise.” He slowly retracted his hand from Stan’s back and hummed, tapping his foot a couple times on the ground thoughtfully. He looked at his watch, which had made indents in his skin from the awkwardly positioned nap, 2:03AM, maybe it was more than a nap. 

“Muh-maybe we should go on a wuh-walk, get your muh-mind off of it?” Bill stood, with a symphony of popping from his joints, which made him groan. Stan chuckled half-heartedly, standing as well and stretching his own back. “That doesn’t sound too bad, good idea,” he said, looking over at the writer with a small smile, “Do you want to change into something different first?” He motioned to the mismatched outfit of Bill’s sweatpants, undershirt, flannel, and turtle slippers. Denbrough flushed a pink that dusted over his cheeks and ears, embarrassed, “Yuh-yeah, I pruh-probably should, huh?”   
Stan nodded quietly, moving aside as Bill shuffled, still in a dreary daze, to his room.

He pulled off the sweats slowly, rummaging through his messy closet to fish out some jeans and socks. After putting on the new pants, he slipped on a belt, then fished out his sneakers from beneath his desk, sliding them on and tying them. Bill figured it’d be cold, so he grabbed his tan jacket, pulling it over his flannel. He opened a drawer, retrieving two pairs of gloves and two beanies, just in case Stanley wanted one, he assumed it’d be nippy at this time of night. 

“Druh-Dressed,” Bill murmured quietly, exiting his room. He found Stan sitting on the couch, eyes fixed on the coffee table. He went stiff, _the drawing_. “Did you draw this?” Stan asked, gingerly placing his fingertips just on the edge of the sketchbook. His tone was soft, curious, not as scalding or freaked out as Bill had anticipated. “Yuh-yeah, I—” “It’s really good, is it supposed to be me?” The question had a tone of restraint, as if he were unsure if he could ask it. “It is, yuh-yeah, I’m suh-sorry I should’ve asked be-before,” Bill rattled out an awkward apology, fearing for the worst of reactions. Instead, Stan finally tore his eyes off the page, looking up at Bill with a little smirk as he snickered, “No, I actually really like it. Don’t worry, it’s okay.” The artist exhaled heavily, relief washing through his system as his internal alarms subsided.

“I’m gluh-glad you like it, I thu-thought it turned out pruh-pretty good.” 

“You definitely made me ten times more attractive, but I really like it. It’s nice, Bill, you didn’t tell me you drew.” 

Bill scoffed, incredulous, “I duh-didn’t change shuh-shit, that’s just how you luh-look.” Stan looked back at the drawing, raising a brow, “If you say so, Bill,” he chuckled, standing. “Could I maybe get a photocopy of it? I’d hate to take the original but it’s super cool.” “Of cuh-course!” Bill nodded before holding out the spare pair of gloves and a beanie, after sliding his on, “I duh-didn’t see you come in with any, it’s pruh-probably pretty cuh-cold.” The accountant blinked, approaching him slowly and taking them, putting it all on, “Thanks, that’s thoughtful of you.” He reached around Bill, grabbing the door and opening it, “After you?”

Bill stepped out of his apartment, the icy air hitting his tired face like a pound of bricks. “Chru-christ,” he muttered hoarsely as Stan slid out of the door behind him. “Cold, huh?” Stan murmured, rubbing his eyes in the same pattern as before, now ahead of Bill as he paced down the walkway out of the underside of the complex. The brunette begrudgingly followed after him, “Yuh-yup.” The editor hummed thoughtfully, looking to Bill as he caught up with a half smile. The blush from the cold shaded over Stanley’s features, making the once-faint scars that traced a dotted line around the man’s face, more visible. The scarring was unique, Bill wished he could ask about it tactfully, but he couldn’t think of a way to start a conversation that could smoothly segway to the cause of the injury. Now didn’t seem like the time either. 

Stanley cleared his throat after a moment of silence, “So, what do you want to do with your life, Mister William Denbrough?” The brunette paused thoughtfully, caught off-guard by the rather complex question, especially at this hour. “You’re already a renowned author, so what’s next? Sell your art?” Bill gnawed at his lip, that was actually a pretty good question. “Nuh-no, art is a hobby, I wuh-wouldn’t want to make it my work,” he responded almost immediately, “and uh, I, duh-” He frowned, “I dunno, what else I want.” “No goals for marriage? Kids? Places you’d like to go?” Stan inquired, raising a brow, surprised. 

“I’d like to be able to come out, at some point, to the public. Marriage would be nice, and muh-maybe a kid, I don’t know.” Bill always had loved kids, but he was scared of having his own for a reason he couldn’t fully understand. He was scared something bad would happen to them, out of his control, not in the way that all parents worried, something much more intense. The author had often imagined how he would come out, and when; sometimes being tempted to muse to the public about his questionings of his sexuality in interviews, especially those that pressed a little too far about his personal life. His dream coming out would involve doing something special with his partner for the press, but there was no partner to do that with, not yet at least.

“Wuh-What about you, Stuh-Stan?” Stan jumped just slightly, startled from the second break in silence. “Uhm…” Stan cracked his knuckles anxiously before crossing his arms, rubbing his biceps for warmth slowly. “I’d like to think I’d get married at some point, but, y’know how it is. I don’t know if I’d trust myself with a kid, if that makes sense, I don’t want to uh— really fuck them up, like my dad did me. I’d like to travel some, maybe to Europe, I’ve heard the Scandinavian countries are quite nice.” 

“I’ve buh-been to Duh-Denmark for a book signing, I tuh-think you’d like it,” Bill responded, smiling. “If thu-this book is wuh-well received, yuh-you’re free to travel wuh-with me if I get buh-booked for any suh-signings. I’m sure KP would puh-pay for you.” “KP?” Stan echoed, but a grin grew on his face, he squirmed just slightly in place as he stopped walking. “King puh-Publishing, our employer,” “Right!” Stan exclaimed, “I wasn’t sure if I was considered their employee or just yours. You really think they would? I’d love to travel some, I’ve really only been to Maine ‘n here.” “Only Maine and Georgia!? Even if thu-they don’t, thu-there is no way I’m nuh-not taking you! Thu-that’s just unacceptable!” Bill snickered, patting Stan’s shoulder gently. The curly-headed man’s eyes lit up in a way that made Bill’s heart soar. “You mean it? I’d love to travel with you.” “Absolu-luh-luh” Bill frowned, “Absolutely.”

Stan let out a refreshed breath, resuming his pace, “Awesome.” Bill smiled, thrilled to see his friend excited, and less focused on that nightmare. It was peaceful, pleasant; he felt all warm inside. Abruptly, the urge to talk about how he felt for the man began to crawl up his throat like a swarm of buzzing bees was trying to escape his stomach from his esophagus. He bit on the inside of his cheek, struggling to show restraint, “Stuh-Stan?” His dear new friend and editor looked back at him, beaming, “Yeah, Bill?” Bill felt his breath catch in his already dry throat, he cleared it, “I’m glad I muh-met you.” “That’s sweet, Bill, I’m glad I met you too.”


	6. Kosher Breakfast

“Stuh-Stan? Wake up,” Bill nudged his boyfriend gently, the warm summer light glaring through the sliver of window not covered by the curtains, “I made breakfast.” The handsome boy stirred slightly, wrapping his hand gently around Bill’s, “okay, okay,” the teen whispered hoarsely, “just a couple more minutes,” he said, leaning up to plant a quick kiss on Bill’s forehead before collapsing back onto the Denbrough teen’s bed. Bill rolled his eyes, his lips twitching into a small smirk. He’d go make their plates and wake up Stan a second time after that, breakfast in bed wouldn’t be off the table this time, considering Bill’s parents had gone out for the day. Atleast, he thought so, they hardly ever announced departures, and they were gone when he got up, a note was left on the fridge that simply read:

_“Will be back for dinner.  
Stanley should be home by 5pm  
Do the dishes and mow the lawn.  
Zack & Sharrie ”_

This morning, while cooking, was spent a little too long thinking about how his parents didn’t sign notes with ‘Mom and Dad’ anymore, or even an ‘I love you.’ The amount of emotional distance between William and his parents had become wider than the Grand Canyon. Georgie’s death certainly seemed to sever their interest in having children at all, much less one teenage child; Bill was no longer cute and young, he was mediocre in looks, gifted only in fine arts and “most definitely a queer,” to quote his most recent argument with his father. Not that any of this particularly bothered him anymore, it was just something to think about. There was certainly an interesting psychological factor Bill wished he could understand, there must be some reason aside from grief, right? It’s been years. 

Bill shook his head and sighed, delicately making a plate for his boyfriend. He had started cooking kosher recently, because of course that’s what Stanley preferred, and considering the mixture of his parents’ indifference and Stan’s father’s neglectful demeanor, Stan was over often. When his parents were home, they often forgot to cook food for Bill, much less Stan, and if they miraculously did, it was something Stan couldn’t eat. So, hash browns, an omelet with cheese and Stan’s favorite veggies, and some buttered toast usually did just fine. 

The brunette placed the plate carefully onto the fold-out bed table, pouring some water, and grabbing the steeping tea he had begun earlier for Stan. He poured it into a mug, placing it beside the glass of water and grabbed the side handles of the tray. “Baby?” Bill called, halfway across the house, “I muh-made breakfast!” By the time he made it to his door, Stan was bolt upright, looking absolutely drained of color, “Bill, your parents you dumbass, don’t call m-” “It’s o-okay, they’re nuh-not here.” The dark blonde’s gaze softened as his shoulders untensed, he leaned against the head of the bed, “Sorry,” he muttered, “You didn’t have to bring it to me in bed, love, but thank you.” Bill shook his head and chuckled, setting it on Stan’s lap carefully, “Yuh-you never guh-get out of bed fast, and buh-besides, I wanted to snuh-snuggle some more after we’re duh-done eating.” The Jewish boy pushed his curly locks out of his eyes and grinned, “You’re cute, Bill Denbrough,” “Am nuh-not.” “Be nice to my boyfriend, won’t you?” Stan deadpanned, before cracking back into a smirk and snickering. He rubbed his bare arms, Bill’s flannel having fallen down to his elbows during the night. He pulled it up quickly, fumbling, thin fingers beginning to button it up, his face going a light pink. Bill’s eyes lingered for a brief moment before he shoved his hands in his pocket and whistled awkwardly, looking to the wooden flooring, “I’m guh-gonna go get my fuh-food,” “Okay, Bill, love you.” “Luh- love you!”

\---

Bill shifted awkwardly, feeling a weight against his hip, his body was, yet again, uncomfortably slumped over on his couch. He lifted his arm to see what was on his hip and froze. Stan. He must've fallen asleep leaning on Bill when they got back from the walk. The brunette froze, blinking a couple times, Stan? Wasn’t that the boy’s name with the curly hair, from his dream? Bill looked at the portrait sitting neatly on the coffee table and closed his eyes, re-conjuring the image of the teen. Stanley Uris, in his childhood bed, at the same age as he was in the dream, probably around 18. It had to be him, it couldn’t be anyone else. Slowly, the author slid a pillow under Stan’s head while simultaneously standing, he stretched his partially asleep legs, and began to shake immediately upon regaining their feeling. The brunette knew that whenever he did happen to remember things from before his wreck, it was almost always in dreams. 

_“Wouldn’t that be something,”_ he heard Stan’s remark echo through his head, rattling every bone in his body. The gentle touches, the kiss, Bill’s flannel on the thin teen’s frame, “More than something, Stan. We were definitely more than just something,” Bill whispered quietly, no stuttering to make an appearance. He took a couple deep breaths and stretched his trembling body; at least William knew just what to make for breakfast.

And so, Bill got to work on breakfast. His mind was racing faster then any racehorse he had ever seen. If Stanley didn’t like his breakfast at least he’d know if this was all a sick game played by his painfully smitten heart, or if it was something much more. William couldn’t fathom it possible to forget someone as amazing as Stanley Uris, but he forgot most everything else, including his little brother, who everyone remarked he was close to. This didn’t seem real, it couldn’t be, but Bill, being a bleeding-heart romantic, pleaded it be true. It was like the most bizarre romance novel, one like he had never read. Something so fascinating, odd, yet simple. Not that someone fell into a coma, or had amnesia, but both of them entirely forgot something they once knew, and met years later. 

Could he ask Stanley about it? Would Stan think he was absolutely insane if it was all just a weird dream caused by being doped-up on love? Was it love? Bill asked himself that as if he didn’t know, but the feelings he felt for Stan exceeded anything he had ever felt, feelings so strong it made him feel guilty for being so gravitated to that man the first day he met him. But if they were always something, maybe it made more sense, and maybe his dear friend would feel that way too.

“Bill? Hey?” Stan cleared his throat, abruptly interrupting the absolutely derailed train wreck of thoughts zipping through the writer’s head, right as he finished the breakfast, placing everything onto a proper plate. “Good muh-morning, suh-sorry I was fuh-focused,” he held out the plate and nodded to an already prepared cup of tea, “Bruh-breakfast? It’s hashbrowns, buttered tuh-toast and a chu-cheese and buh-bell puh-pepper omelet.” The dark blonde took the plate slowly, then looked back up at Bill with an off put, half-smile, “My favorite, actually, thank you.” Bill’s heart nearly burst, he placed his hand on the bar, trying to keep grounded, “Fuh-favorite?” “Uhuh…” Stan nodded skeptically, “How did you know?”


	7. Scarred

“—and puh-please don’t thu-think I’m nuts if I’m wruh-wrong, but thuh-there’s so muh-much it just- it juh-just lines up.” 

Bill opened his eyes, having had them closed for the majority of his rambling. He told Stanley everything. The brief memory when they had talked about Derry, and the clearer one from his dream. Stan sat, hunched over his plate just slightly, chewing the inside of his cheek, his eyes focused on his fork. The writer’s hands shook with anxious tremors, he shoved them into his pockets quickly, trying not to stare at Stan, or how the borrowed Nirvana shirt he was wearing slouched off of his shoulder just slightly.

“I don’t think you're nuts, Bill—” Stan took a sip of his tea, his eyes wide as they finally met the brunette’s. “I started remembering little bits too, it started in the cafe for me.”  
Bill’s mouth hung open, he didn’t know whether or not to feel excited, shocked, or something else, every memory had another feeling he couldn’t quite place, something in the background, something bad, dark.

“Whu-What did you remember?”

“Well, I remembered someone named Bill, who looked like a lanky, younger you, giving me a ride back home on his bike. But I didn’t want to go home, so we kept taking breaks from the ride to do other things, walking a trail, even just sitting at the park in front of this big statue, it kinda gave me the creeps. We saw this other kid, a heavier set guy, and he came up and chatted with us for a bit, we seemed to be good friends with him.”

The dark blonde paused, taking a bite of his omelet, chewing slowly, and swallowing.

“Then, when we were on the walk last night, or, I guess this morning? Anyways, I remembered some sort of weird ritual with some other kids, the one from earlier included. You cut my palm with a piece of glass, which is so fucking dangerous by the way, then everyone else’s. Like a bloodpact?” 

Stan raised his hand and pointed to a faint scar on his palm. Bill blinked a couple times, _a bloodpact?_ He closed his eyes again, trying to remember why he would be compelled to participate in a bloodpact, with a bunch of people he didn’t remember. He opened his lids and looked at his palm, he knew he had a scar there too, but assumed it was from falling off his bike or something as a child. The brunette held it up for the accountant to see, who stared, mouth open. He watched Stanley slowly, lean back in his chair, then tracing the dotted scars around his face. 

And like that, Bill was in the field again. “I thought It was dead,” a ginger girl breathed, her eyes focused on the grassy terrain, hands folded into each other. “That’s what it felt like. I saw us, all of us, together again back at the cistern,” she continued, Bill found his eyes rested on Stan, his hair mostly covered by a bandage that wrapped around the perimeter of his face, then around his head, only a tuft of curls pulled out at the front, “We were older - our parents ages.” 

The brunette felt words press into his throat, his heart pounding suddenly, “Whu-whu-what were we all doing there?” that damned stutter. The girl shook her head just slightly, “I just remember how we felt, how scared we were. I don’t think I can ever forget that.” Bill bit his lip anxiously, shifting on the log in which he sat, he thought he— that _they_ had defeated it. That they were safe, he huffed out an anxious breath, focused now on the grass. The sun gleamed off of a piece of glass, a shard of an old liquor bottle on the ground. Did It really come back? They couldn’t just let this all happen again, no one deserved to suffer the way Georgie, Betty, even Patrick, did. No kids deserved to take on the burden that his band of friends did either, since the adults in Derry rarely ever changed, indifference was ingrained in their culture. But the Losers? They couldn’t be indifferent. He grabbed the shard and gestured as he spoke, “Swear it— Ss-Swear, if It isn’t dead, if It ever comes back, We’ll come back too.”

Bill felt himself stumble into his kitchen island as the breath drained from his lungs, heart still pounding. “Whu-whu-whu- what the fuck?” He whispered hoarsely, his hands clamoring out of their pockets to hold onto the marble edge. Stan’s eyes softened, he hopped off the bar stool and walked over to Bill, “What’s wrong?” “Whu-what is i-i-” He cleared his throat, struggling to breathe and speak at the same time, huffing. Stan took one of his hands, gently pulling him back into a standing position, “It?” he asked, his voice quiet, shaking just slightly as well. Bill nodded, staring at Stan with now watering eyes. 

“Duh-did it do this?” He asked, moving to cup the dark blonde’s jaw, tracing gently over the scarring. Stan placed a hand on top of his, shuddering, “I think so.” He felt Stan’s other hand snake around the back of his neck, nudging their foreheads together, “What happened to us, Bill?” “I duh-duh-don’t.. I don’t..” He inhaled sharply, resting his other hand on Stan’s waist, he was terrified, the fear from the memory felt so real, even now. The brunette tried to focus on Stan, he had wanted to be this close to him since the day they met, well, reunited. “How are we supposed to fight It, if we don’t know what It is?” the man muttered, holding on tightly to Bill. “Muh-maybe we won’t have to, whu-we’ll figure it out okay? If it huh-happens.” “...Okay” 

Slowly, the author pulled away, grabbing ahold of Stan’s hand again gently, a tired, anxious grin spreading across his features. “Wuh-Well, this is a lot to pruh-process in the morning, huh?” Stan chuckled, nodding and squeezing the other’s hand gently, “Sure is, uhm-” he looked down at their hands, raising them just slightly, “What’s all this mean for us?” Bill felt his heart flutter, his stomach quickly filling with awkward butterflies, akin to descriptions of a teenager in love, “Whu-whatever you want it to mean, Stuh-stanny,” he murmured, feeling the heat rise in his face. There was a pause, and Stan flicked him gently in the nose with a _thwack_. Bill jumped, eyes refocusing as he looked at a blushing dark blonde with a twitching smirk, “Cut your sappy, protagonist in love shit, Denbrough. Are we dating or not?”

Bill swallowed, hard and laughed anxiously, “I’d like tuh-to, if yuh-you’d have muh-me.” The editor exhaled, sounding relieved, he pushed his forehead against Bill’s collar bone and leaned his entire body onto him, “Sounds good.” “Yuh-you mean it?” “I do.” Bill wrapped his arms around Stan, squeezing him in a quick embrace before resting his chin on the other’s head. He blinked a couple times, a fraction of information passing through his brain, “That one kid you mentioned a couple times, his name was Ben, Benjamin Hanscom, I think.” Stan pulled away, pushing slightly at the brunette’s chest, and looking up at him rather quizzically, “Benjamin Hanscom, you’re serious?” “I’m pruh-pretty sure.” The accountant snatched up his laptop, pulling it open and beginning to type away. The laptop's fans whirred and groaned as it was abruptly forced into a waking state. Bill raised a brow, "Do you knuh-know him?" 

“No, but I know of him.”  
“Whu-what do you mean?”  
“He’s— He’s like a world-class architect. He guest-starred on some renovating shows I watch.” 

“You watch renovation shows?” Bill snorted, smirking, “Boring.” “Did you hear anything I just said, William?” The Jewish man inquired, irritated. The author blinked a couple times, “World-class architect? Wuh-well maybe it’s not him, muh-maybe a different Ben Hanscom.” Stan shook his head, waving Bill over to his laptop. He was on a new website Bill had been meaning to join, Friendster, people were sharing videos, messaging, the like. A video was loading, a little circle doing dances over the blurred frame of a man in a bright yellow helmet. It finally began to play.

A handsome, built man in construction attire took off his helmet and looked to the camera, it was a clearly set-up shot for an interview. “What made you want to become an architect, Mr. Hanscom?” The man smiled wistfully, briefly lost in his thoughts, “I think it all goes back to a clubhouse I built back home, somewhere in Maine. The memories are foggy, but I think it has to start there.” “Right, you had a pretty bad case of Amnesia when—” 

Stan paused the video, gesturing wildly at his phone with a spare hand. “Juh-Jesus fuck,” Bill started, grabbing his own phone, “We have to cuh-contact him.” His partner froze, stiff, “Bill, there’s no way he’d answer a call from randoms like us.” The writer shook his head, “He luh-looks really nice, and I can muh-make up some shit about my wuh-work if we need to,” he paused, “our work.”


	8. Making Dinner Plans

“Bill, your phone is ringing,” Stan muttered, nodding towards the loud Nokia, where it sat on the kitchen bar. The brunette perked up, from his position nearby on the couch, working on his laptop. He set it to the side, jogging over and snatching up the phone, pressing the answer button as he shared a glance with his boyfriend, who was currently fixing up some grilled cheese sandwiches. 

“Hello?”  
“Hi! I’m looking to speak with William Denbrough?”  
“And yuh-you’ve reached him.”  
“Oh- Fantastic! Hi, I got an email from my secretary with your contacts, she said we may know each other? This is Benjamin Hanscom, but please, call me Ben.”

Bill froze, neck whipping over to look at Stan, wide-eyed, he pointed to the phone, mouthing the name “Ben”. Stan perked up, flipping one of the sandwiches onto a plate and cutting it, handing half to the author, who took a bite and swallowed it quickly.

“Yuh-yeah! I mean, yes, Uhm. Muh-my friend and I, we’re from cuh-central Maine, like yuh-you are. And we buh-both also experienced suh-some sort of bluh-block in our muh-memory.” 

There was a pause on the other end of the line, only the light drumming of fingers on a desk.

“Do you know where, in Maine?” Ben asked, sounding apprehensive. The writer could hear him shifting about his apartment now, the creak of a desk chair, the shuffling of feet, the ruffling of clothing and jingling of keys, as if he were digging through his pocket.

“Duh-duh-duh-Derry. Derry, Muh-Maine.” 

He heard the other man inhale sharply once he was able to first spit out the town. “What are the odds?” he replied, quieter, “We’re all from that tiny no-where town…” He trailed off, there was the sound of paper folding on his end. “You said your name is William, Right?” 

“Yuh-yes, buh-but my friends cuh-call me Buh-buh-b—” “Bill?” Ben interrupted before gasping just loud enough to be picked up, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you!” The author laughed, not nearly as frustrated as he remembered being every time someone finished his sentences. Then again, he knew Ben didn’t mean any harm, he never did. He caught racing glimpses, wisps of memories, of Hanscom. Ben was gentle, kind. He was a romantic at heart, in a way that Bill always remembered relating to, they'd talk about it frequently. “No, it’s okay, yuh-you’re right.” 

He heard the paper on the other end again, Ben must have been holding it close, maybe even with the same hand as the phone. “Call me crazy, Bill, but I think we should meet up. And, uh, I might have a clue as to who another of our friends is,” “Yuh-you do? Whu-what makes you thuh-think you know? Duh-do you remember anythuh-thuh-thing?” 

“I don’t remember anything vivid, but… I’ve got this yearbook page, in my wallet, I’ve always had it. It’s signed by a Beverly Marsh.” “Beverly Marsh?” Bill thought back to the bloodpact—no, blood oath— the pale, beautiful girl with ginger hair, seafoam eyes. That was Beverly, or Bev, Marsh, “I ruh-remember her, just vuh-vaguely.” “You do!?” Ben exclaimed, sounding more elated then Bill could ever anticipate, “What about, uhm, what about your friend? Do they remember Beverly? Anything specific?” Bill looked at Stan, who was leaning against him, close enough he could listen in on the conversation. The curly-headed fellow cleared his throat quietly, “Hi Ben, I guess you’re talking to me. This is Stan, and I remember Bev, not much about her though. Red hair, bright eyes, she was cool, in like, an untouchable way.” 

Ben exhaled slowly on the other line, “That sounds right, that— that feels really, really right, thank you, Stan.” “Yeah, No problem,” Stan nodded, more so to Bill and himself. 

“Where are you guys?”  
“Uhm, Wuh-we are living in Atlanta, currently.”  
“Georgia?”  
“Georgia.” Stanley affirmed, humming, “How about you, Ben?”  
“I’m a little all over the place, because of work, but right now I’m in Lincoln, Nebraska.” “Shit, that’s a ways away,” Stan murmured, patting his free hand against the bar. “Are you guys free this weekend?” Ben asked abruptly, “You mean, as in tomorrow?” Stan inquired, looking up to Bill who simply shrugged and nodded. 

“Yeah, tomorrow!” Ben exclaimed, sounding excited, there was rustling of zippers and other unidentifiable noises. “I guess so, yeah, did you want to call again then?” There was a pause, something thudding against the floor, “Ben, are you okay?” Another zipper, the other cleared his throat, finally speaking up “I’ve got a free stay at a hotel in Atlanta, near the heart of the city. Can I count on you guys to meet up with me? I’ll pay for dinners, and whatever else we do together.” Bill and Stan shared a long look, both trying to process the offer, taken aback. “Wuh-we can definitely do that, Ben. Sounds good!” 

Hanscom laughed in a way that an excited kid would, the background noise quieted. “Awesome! I can’t wait. I’ve wanted to reconnect with my old friends for ages, even if I couldn’t remember them until, like, right now.” He chuckled to himself again, “That sounds so stupid, but I can’t express how much I missed knowing people — actually knowing them. I feel like I’ve already known you guys for forever, Stan, Bill. Probably because I kinda have! Isn’t that neat?”

Stan grinned bemused by the architect's excited ramblings as he took a bite of Bill’s sandwich, returning to the stove to begin grilling the other. “It’s ruh-really cool, I know,” the author responded, nodding, “Wuh-we can’t wait to get buh-back with you either! Uhm— When’s a guh-good time for you? To meet?” There was a pause, footsteps again, then clicking at a computer. 

“Says I’ll be in about 6 O’Clock tonight, if I catch this flight in about two hours, So really whenever.”  
“Wuh-whoa, dude, you don’t have to r-ruh-rush that much if you don’t—”  
“I really don’t mind! I was bored anyways.” 

Bill, again, was taken back by the nonchalant nature of the man he had just met over the phone. On second thought, it made a lot of sense when in comparison to the boy he remembered, well, what he did remember of him, that is. Ben would absolutely blow however much money, waste as much time as anyone asked or needed, just to be with his friends. Somethings never change.

“Bill, you there, buddy?  
“Yuh-yeah! Yeah, sorry, I was just tuh-thinking. If yuh-you can hold off on duh-dinner until then, wuh-we could puh-pick you up and go out?” He offered, taking a bite of his sandwich. “Sounds perfect! Only if you’re up for it?” “Of cuh-cuh-course!” Bill mustered, his mouth clearly full of food.

“Awesome— Awesome!” Ben burst, his excitement was quickly becoming highly contagious. The rummaging on the other end was picking up, Bill assumed he was packing. “Thank you so much for reaching out Bill, Stan. I can’t wait to figure this all out with you, and hopefully see everyone again!” “Yuh-yeah, it’ll be nice to have thu-the Luh-luh-” he paused, “The Losers back together.” There was a moment of complete silence from the other end, followed by a couple rapid pats of Ben’s hand against something, “The Losers! That’s right! The Losers Club, that was us, huh? You’re already jogging my memory, and I’m not even there yet, man!” 

Bill looked to Stan who was clearly zoning out at the stove, he gently nudged himself in front of him, grabbing the spatula to flip the sandwich which had begun to char. “Juh-jogging my own as we guh-go, that came out of nuh-no where, honestly.” He set down the spatula, rubbing a couple gentle circles onto Stan’s back while Ben chuckled on the other end. The author covered the microphone, “Yuh-you okay?” Stan blinked a couple times, inhaling sharply and holding up his pointer finger, quickly slinking to the couch and grabbing a pillow, he held it to his chest, taking deep breaths. 

The brunette cleared his throat, keeping an eye on Stan with growing concern as his boyfriend began to shake just slightly. “Hey, Buh-Ben? I’ll suh-see you around six, I need to go.” “Oh! Right, right, I’m sorry for keeping you, man! You two take care!” “Yuh-you too. Bye!”

He set down the phone and hurriedly joined his partner, next to him on the couch. The author moved to wrap an arm around Stan, but was firmly pushed away. “Don’t touch me right now,” he murmured hoarsely, “Go pull that sandwich off the stove too.” Bill jumped, scrambling to his feet and grabbing the spatula, flipping the poor, crunchy sandwich onto a plate. He came back, standing in front of the coffee table, staring down at his beloved Stanley Uris with wide, concerned eyes, “B-bill I… I remembered something, and it wasn’t good this time.” Bill sat down on the carpet, keeping his distance, “Wuh-what was it?” “You’re gonna think I’m crazy.” “I really duh-doubt that.”


	9. Head Over Heels

“That fucked up monster lady, from my dream, I think she was real.” 

Bill pursed his lips, he just told Stan he wouldn’t think he was crazy. However, the description of that woman he gave last night certainly didn’t seem like it _could_ be real, unless there was some alternative reality shift with a Cronenberg-esk universe. Was that possible? The author turned over the idea a couple times in his head, closing his eyes and trying to focus.

“Bill? This is really not the time to z-zone out on me,” Stan said, clearing his throat. The author snapped out of it, guilt washing over him briefly for getting hung up. “Suh-sorry, Buh-Birdie. Whu-what makes you think i-it’s real?” The dark blonde curled in on himself slightly, wrapping his own arms around his torso, then pulling up a leg. “I remember her attacking me, in some f-filthy chasm.”

“STAN!” The lanky boy in thick glasses shouted, a hand firmly gripping to Bill’s sleeve as he waved the flashlight around the gloomy sewage tunnel. “Stanley!” A shorter boy echoed, but quieter, his legs shaking, each step cautious. He kept gagging beneath his breath with each ripple of the ankle-length water. Bill’s heart began to pound, his breath heaving, he started to speed up, water splashing wildly around his feet. He needed to find Stan. 

Suddenly, they heard an inhumane shriek, followed by an all too familiar scream. Bill spun around towards the sounds and took off, his friends in-tow behind him. “H-hey, Hey Stanley!” The shorter boy called again, now beside Bill, he was still shaking, but stared straight ahead, refusing to look at the sludge below, “STANLEY!” he continues once they hit a metal barrier. Bill and his friends begin to press all their weight against it, it groans, finally bursting open, nearly sending his friend in a cream shirt into the murky shit-water.

Everyone barrelled into the room, towards the well in its center. It looked to be a cistern. The small boy in a cast continued to shout, but Bill’s heart was pounding so hard that he couldn’t make out what he was saying anymore. He watched the blur with a cast take off, his body jerked clumsily to follow in pursuit. There It was, the beastly, deformed monster that only vaguely resembled a woman, it’s jaw extending downward, encased over Stan’s face. 

Bill froze, mortified, “WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?” The boy in glasses shouted, Bill remembered his name was Richie. Bill looked back to see Ben gently take Richie’s arm, pulling him back, Stan was Richie’s best friend, he needed the comfort. The monster looked up, slowly peeling away its jaw and skittering into the surrounding darkness with a shriek. Stan gasped for air, the beast slid into a nearby tunnel, disappearing briefly before peering back out. A clown. Bill’s heart stopped. **It** was the clown, the woman, the leper, Eddie, the short boy, saw. It was everything.

Bill blinked a couple times, taken aback, his hands shaking just like they were back in the cistern, “I ruh-remember it too.” “You do?” Stan responded meekly, wiping tears from his eyes with his palm. Bill nodded slowly, “Ah-and the cluh-clown.” There was a pause, Stan cracked his knuckles, one at a time, he nodded slowly, “The clown. That’s what It was.”

They both sat there for sometime. The curly-headed man slowly rose from his seat on the couch and sat beside Bill on the carpet, shifting to lay his head on his partner’s thigh. The brunette slid his fingers gently through the other’s dark brown locks. “Maybe there’s a good reason we don’t remember, Bill,” Stan blurted, his body sinking into his partner’s thigh. “Wuh-well, muh-maybe, buh-but I’d ruh-rather remember now then wuh-whenever we may have to go back, luh-like, uh, Bev? Yeah, Like buh-Bev said buh-back then.” Stan sighed, nodding solemnly, his agreement was obviously begrudging, “I guess.”

Bill and Stan stayed on the floor like that for sometime, relatively in silence. There was much to think about, much to fear, but, in Bill’s mind, much more to look forward to. Bill missed companionship more than he had missed anything, which was odd saying, considering he remembered only yesterday he once had a large friend group. William had always been an unintentional lone-wolf type. He couldn’t connect with people, but he strived to do so. No matter how hard he tried, the people he surrounded himself either were there for professional reasons or he simply didn’t click with them. Ironically, at least he thought so, the writer struggled most with understanding people’s inflections and behaviors. 

He could write about the complexities of his characters and every reason they spoke or moved in a certain fashion, but real people were so much different. Not that Bill’s characters weren’t realistic, but they did fall into particular patterns that he understood. They didn’t behave as normal people, but those who had experienced difficult lives, as Denbrough believed the victims of horror often did. Upon further inspection, maybe Bill now knew why his characters had particular traumatic patterns and correlating behaviors, the more he thought about it, he and the Loser’s Club didn’t have particularly normal, or pleasant childhoods. Bill bit his cheek, frustrated at the thought that perhaps his characters were not as original as he may have thought, potential recolors of forgotten friends. _At the least, realistic, if not original,_ he reminded himself, trying not to be too self critical. 

“I can see your gears turning, Denbrough, careful, all that rusted smoke coming out of your ears may set off the fire alarm,” Stan’s voice threw him out of his steadily worsening spiral. He grinned, running his fingers through his hair awkwardly, “Muh-mean.” “Oh, I know I’m just awful,” his boyfriend replied flatly, sitting up from Bill’s leg. The numbness from his head's weight leaving made his thigh prick with pins and needles. “Y’know,” the dark blonde started, stretching and giving a quiet yawn, “It’s 5:30, Bill.” The brunette looked at the clock quizzically, “Yuh-yeah, I see that? Muh-man, time flew buh-by.” Stan raised a brow, shoving Bill’s arm gently, “We need to be at the airport in thirty-minutes and it’s a twenty-minute drive with good traffic.” 

Just like that, the author lurched onto his feet, everything was pins and needles now, not just his thigh. He wobbled just slightly, holding his head as the blood rushed. “Fuh-fuck, okay, I’m guh-gonna get ready, yuh-your cluh-clothes shu-shu-shu-should be dry!” He took off, legs wobbling awkwardly to the sides as he made it to his bedroom and shut the door. He heard the other laugh at his expense, followed by a bemused “Okay, don’t hurt yourself.”

Bill tried his best not to, but he definitely spent half the 10 minutes in his room holding the knee he hit fairly hard on his desk when trying to change pants.

“I cuh-can’t believe he juh-just flew here, like, ruh-right away.” The writer murmured, starting the car. “Rich people have all the time in the world if they’re rich enough,” Stan responded, buckling himself into the car. “Guh-guess so,” the brunette replied, pulling out of his designated parking lot and into the road. He looked at the radio console, displaying a track number, Track 5. _Kissin’ Dynamite_ , Bill knew the album, AC/DC’s Blow Up Your Video (1988), like the back of his hand. Stan bobbed his head to the beat, familiar.

“Whu-what do you like, muh-music wise?” “I’m more of an ABBA or Billy Joel guy, but AC/DC isn’t bad either,” Stan answered. “I thu-think I have an ABBA duh-disk,” Bill said, popping down his sun visor and pulling off the one-sheet CD holder, passing it to his passenger. “Take a luh-look?” He requested, glancing at his partner who nodded.

“The Visitors!” Stan exclaimed, holding up a neon orange disk, “This is a good one.” The brunette nodded in agreement, nodding towards the console, “Wuh-well? Swap it out!” The other squirmed excitedly on the passengers' side, ejecting the AC/DC disk and sliding it in the place of the orange disc, he waited for the music to begin and immediately skipped the first song. “Yuh-you don’t luh-like the title suh-song?” Bill cocked his head slightly, a confused, crooked smirk on his face. “I just like Head Over Heels more,” he retorted, humming along to the lyrics, which eventually evolved into quiet singing and dancing in his seat. Bill watched from the corner of his eye at every opportunity he got. Bill was head over heels.


	10. Ninth Hour Anniversary

Bill approached the airport door, quickly going slack in Stan's hand, waiting for him to let go, who pulled away with no issue. “Huh-hopefully he isn’t mad we’re a cuh-couple minutes late,” Bill murmured, Stan chuckled quietly, “He doesn’t seem like the type.” They stepped past the sliding doors, and looked around, his boyfriend fiddled with his scarf anxiously beside him. The brunette spotted their large-framed friend beside the escalator, he held a small sign made of a folded over brochure that read “Bill Denbrough and Stan.” His partner noticed him about the same time and snickered, tugging at Bill’s jacket sleeve gently so that they could walk over.

Ben continued to stay focused on the doors, when the pair was well past them. “Ben?” Stan said, clearing his throat as they passed the area where one would step onto the escalator. The man looked up, immediately his eyes filling with joyful recognition, wide and excited, “Stanley!” He set his sign down on the suitcase beside him and took three quick, long paces over, immediately wrapping the accountant up in a tight bear-hug. Stan froze, looking over to Bill who grinned. The editor hugged back briefly, patting Ben’s arm “You’re… kinda crushing me, big guy.” The architect pulled away riggedly, rubbing at the back of his neck with a blush-tinted face, “Sorry.” 

He looked to Bill and smiled brightly, “Bill, right?” The brunette laughed, nodding and extending his arms for a hug which Ben eagerly took. The author patted the strong man’s back firmly and squeezed him in return, Ben towered over the both of them, which irritated Bill just slightly. “I’m so glad I could see you both so soon, man,” his friend said, releasing him from the tight embrace. Stan walked over to stand closer to the two of them, smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt repetitively as they reformed. “Us too,” Bill replied, shoving his hands awkwardly into his pockets.

“So, where are we having dinner? I’m starving!” Hanscom exclaimed, grabbing his luggage and brochure. Stan looked at Bill, a smirk and a raised brow plastered on his features. Bill had forgotten to pick a place for dinner, and began to wrack his brain mercilessly for a place that could impress both his boyfriend and Ben Hanscom, world renowned architect, while simultaneously making Bill look cool, with-the-times, and not stuck up. “How duh-do you guys fuh-feel about ramen?” Ramen bars have become slowly more popular in large cities over the course of the past year. Bill liked them a fair amount, they always felt homey and welcoming, and the food was never disappointing. Ben nodded excitedly, “Ramen sounds so good right now.” “O-Oishī Ramen Buh-bar it is then! It’s cluh-close too!” “Awesome!” “That works,” Stan added.

Stan and Bill walked Ben back to their car while he rambled on about his excitement, helping him load everything into the trunk. Stan had offered the passenger’s side to Ben, who politely insisted he’d be fine in the back. _’Fine,’_ Bill discovered, was borderline hugging his knees and bending over so that his head wasn’t painfully pressed to the roof of the small car. His boyfriend gave Bill a bemused glance at the site as they pulled away from the airport.

After some bumper-to-bumper traffic when they hit the heart of the city, Denbrough parked in a spot in front of the Oishī Ramen Bar. He slipped out of the car, waiting for the other two, Stan grabbed his arm absent mindedly, but Ben seemed to take no particular notice. “How many?” The hostess at the podium asked immediately after the friends filed in. “Thu-three,” Bill said, Stan held up 3 fingers in unison with Benjamin. They laughed amongst each other briefly as they followed the woman to their booth. The dark blonde slid in after the shorter brunette, so that they were situated across from the architect, he most likely needed the most room with a frame like his. 

The writer felt his dear editor lean against him just slightly, “How was the flight, Ben?” Ben seemed to jump just slightly, lowering the menu that was covering the view of his face. “It was good! There was a young woman and her daughter next to me, we played dolls for the majority of the flight. I think it was good for both of our flight anxiety.” The pair across from Hanscom cracked a set of grins, “Nuh-not a fan of fluh-flying?” “Well, I guess it’s more of the closed spaces for me, I’m kinda claustrophobic, especially if it’s a space out of my control, if that makes sense?” Bill nodded thoughtfully, “I thu-think I understand.” “I’m just, uh, I’m just a big guy, y’know?” Ben murmured, pulling at his jacket awkwardly, his body language changing to that of what looked like embarrassment, but Bill could never be for sure. Stan cleared his throat, “You’re pretty built and tall, I can imagine some spaces just not being ideal,” he said, patting Bill’s leg which had begun to bounce anxiously. 

“Something like that,” their friend said, nodding and staring down at the menu, “So, how long have you two been dating? Is that a new thing or... from before as well?” Heat rose to Bill’s face faster then it would have if someone set him on fire. The dark blonde sat up straight, taken aback, lips pursed. Ben finally looked up with a twitch of a nervous grin, “O-or I could be wrong, sorry, did I overstep?” He began to drum his fingers sheepishly, chuckling to himself. Eventually, the author cleared his throat and glanced at Stan who simply shrugged, “Wuh-we dated before, we thu-think, buh-but we’ve been dating only fuh-for luh-like a day.” 

Ben raised a brown, seeming genuinely surprised, “Really? Only a day?” Stan squirmed, a light pink tint taking to his face as he fiddled with the menu, taking a moment to tap each corner of his menu, then William’s as well. “Yeah, only a day, unless you count before?” Their affection friend smiled and leaned over, patting Stan’s hand gently, “I could just tell. Maybe that’s because of before, but you two seem kinda attached at the hip, in a cute way, like you balance each other out.” The pair grew quiet, flattered and too anxious to look at the other’s reaction to the statement.

Bill wasn’t quite used to this ‘genuine emotion’ type talk with anyone, especially not other men. That wasn’t how his family was. He had very faint, ghosts of memories in which he would occasionally say something as open as Ben had just said with his old friends. What he said sounded and felt like home, in a way. He must’ve spoken openly like this a lot when they were younger. He was also taken aback by the fact that Ben was comfortable saying that after he was informed that they had only been dating for, at most, 24 hours. Bill wasn’t even sure if Stan counted that many of the hours, considering it was made official this morning, so more like 9 hours? Something like that.

The writer was absolutely terrified at the idea of looking at Stan right now, for once he couldn’t bring himself to look at the dark blonde. On one hand, he could have on that bashful, awkward grin, the one that made his heart flutter, on the other, a pursed lip-awkward face that was only trying to be polite to the other two at the table. His train of thought was immediately derailed as a hand slid over his, squeezing it gently, he flinched, looking over to see a quiet, beaming Stanley Uris, his boyfriend. Bill had never felt luckier. 

“Thanks, Ben. That’s really sweet of you to say,” he finally responded, Bill had completely forgotten that was something he most likely should’ve done a minute or so ago, but nodded in agreement. “‘Course!” he chirped, setting back down the menu with a frazzled expression, “What are you guys gonna get?” 

“Pruh-probably the suh-Seafood Ramen.”  
“I think I’ll be getting the Beef Chashu.”  
“Cool, I’m gonna get the Pork Belly one.”  
“Ew.”  
“Right, Kosher is one of your requirements, huh?”  
“Well, yes, I’m surprised that’s something you already remember, actually. But I have tried pork and it's awful.”  
“It’s nuh-not that buh-bad!”  
“I’m with Billy on that one!!” 

Stan smiled and rolled his eyes, leaning fully onto Bill’s shoulder. Bill was stiff as a board, for some reason being called Billy rubbed him so far the wrong way he could hardly articulate it. He bit the inside of his cheek and cleared his throat firmly, “Buh-Bill, just Bill.” Ben’s gaze softened, “Oh, sorry man, of course,” he began to drum his finger’s again. His partner squeezed his hand gently while his stomach turned over a couple times, nearly making him ill as he sunk deeper into his own thoughts. 

Bill brushed on the last of the paraffin right as it began to dry on the brush. He lifted it up and offered it gingerly to the little boy behind him, a thick turtleneck peeking from beneath his sweatshirt. “Alright, there you go! Shuh-she’s all ready cap’n.” “She?” The younger inquired, looking at the boat, then to his older brother skeptically, a small smile painting his features and rosy cheeks. “Yuh-you always call buh-boats she,” they shared a mutual nod. “She,” Georgie affirmed, grinning down at that paper and wax boat, the _SS. Georgie_ , as Bill had carefully dubbed it moments before with a sharpie. His little brother wrapped his arms gently around his neck, the older returned the embrace tightly, “Thanks Billy.” He grinned, chin on his brother’s shoulder as he tickled briefly up the boys side, they both snicker. That was one of the last seconds he spent with George Denbrough, his little brother. That was the only person who could ever call him Billy. 

“He wants the Seafood Ramen, sorry, he’s zoning out,” he heard Stan say as he came back to the present. “Fantastic, that’s no problem!” the waiter responded, giving a polite smile to the dated author before stepping away. “You okay man? You were really gone there for a second,” Ben asked, leaning over to give a quick pat to his shoulder. “Yuh-yeah, I’m okay. Juh-just ruh-remembered some about my bruh-brother.” Stan leaned back, rubbing Bill’s back as a form of quiet consolation. Ben nodded, sympathetic, knowing, “Drink some water?” “Thu-that sounds like a guh-good idea,” Bill nodded, grabbing the glass in front of him.

After a couple minutes of silence, the author felt somewhat grounded again. “Suh-so we’ve guh-got three names now.” “Three?” Stan asked, glancing at Bill incredulously, making him now realize he didn’t bring up he had remembered two more. “I ruh-remembered Ruh-Richie and Eh-Eddie, then Bev.” The dark blonde blinked a couple times, “Mike.” “Mike!” Bill and Ben repeated in unison, “And Eddie’s last name is Kaspbrak,” Ben added.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone :) Thank you so much for the support thus far! I'm so glad that those of you this is reaching are interacting. As we start collecting losers the chapters may become a bit longer and increase in pace slightly. Don't be scared to check out other fics I've got going if you have the time! I have a 25 chapter completed Chap 2 fix-it centered around Reddie, an ongoing neibolt Reddie au, and a short Reddie/Stenbrough Prom fic.


	11. Missing Our Ember

Beverly’s phone rang, abruptly interrupting her quiet, tense dinner with her husband. She made brief and searing eye contact with Tom before rising from her seat. She slid on her house shoes, stepping onto the porch and shutting the door quietly. “Hi! You reached Beverly Rogan, can I help you?”

“Bev?”

Beverly paused, the male voice on the other end oozed with sweet honey and familiarity. Deeper, she noted, but it was indeed familiar. “That’s me!” she breathed out, her voice breathlessly airy and anxious, “Whose this?”

“Oh! Right, Right- I’m sorry. I’m Ben Hanscom, we grew up together?” Bev’s face lit up, she shifted her weight from one foot from the other. _Ben_ , brunette, sweet brown eyes, soft and worn graphic tees, and a broken, home-made model of a cistern. Ben Hanscom, the boy whose eyes lingered longer, but in a way that made you feel welcome, safe. The New Kid on the Block, with the spotted shower cap and knack for architecture, poetic of his presence and the stability he brought with it. “Ben!” She exclaimed, “New Kid.”

There was a chuckle on the other end, she thought she could hear other people as well. “That’s me, you remember?” Bev blinked a couple times thoughtfully, “Remember is a strong word, Benny.” “Wuh-we’re all in that buh-boat,” someone else added, “We?” she inquired, there _was_ other people. “Uh- Ruh-right, Hi, This is Buh-Bill. And Stuh-Stan.” “I can introduce myself, Bill.” Someone else retorted flatly. “Suh-sorry.” _Bill and Stan. They were always together, weren’t they?_

The lanky brunette shifted uncomfortably across from Bev at the park table. “Duh-did I do something ruh-wrong?” He finally managed, swallowing hard. The ginger girl felt a pang of guilt, interrupting the aching in her heart, she knew what had to happen. “No Bill, I think we just really need to talk about something,” she reached her hand across the table, he took it with shaky, calloused fingers. Beverly inhaled sharply, “I don’t think this relationship is good for you.” 

The boy, her boyfriend of roughly two weeks, eye’s went wide, “Wuh-what? Wuh-why? Duh-duh-d-” Bill cleared his throat, looking at her, he knew she understood. “You didn’t do anything, but I don’t really…” She trailed off, biting the inside of her cheek and forcing a big smile, trying hard to think of a tactful approach. “I think you may like dark blondes more, they seem like your type.” Bill blinked a couple times, clearly perplexed, laughing awkwardly “Buh-Bev your huh-hair color is really pretty, yuh-you don’t have to wuh-worry about shit like that.” The tall girl let a groan slip, “No, Bill,” she squeezed his hand, “I’m saying a little birdy told me that you may have your eyes on a curly-headed friend other than me.” 

The brunette stared, disoriented and visibly processing before his jaw went slack, “Richie didn’t.” Bev pursed her lips awkwardly and chuckled, “He’s a snitch, Bill, y’know that. But like, he was looking out for me.” Her friend’s face contorted into an expression of embarrassment and shame, “I’m suh-sorry I duh-didn’t tell you.” “It’s okay, Bill. I know it’s scary,” she cleared her throat and squeezed his hand once more before pulling away, “You should talk to him, Bill, tell me if you ever need a wing-woman, okay?”

“Bev, Yuh-you there?”  
“Oh! Shit, yeah, I am. Hey Stan, Bill. How are you two?” _Hopefully not back in the closet,_ Bev thought, because clearly it was important enough to remember they were dating if all that shit just ran through her brain. “We’re good, thank you. We called to see if you could maybe meet up with us sometime soon?” 

Bev’s mind returned to Ben Hanscom, she wondered what he looked like as an adult. “I could make some room,” she said with little hesitation, glancing at her smartwatch and tabbing through her packed calendar, looking for something to remove. There was a day she had set aside to meet with a designer, but since they were a close friend she knew they could probably fit it over a dinner in the next week or so. “Where are you all?” “Altana!” Ben chimed in.  
“I could fly over tomorrow, I think, do you know of a good hotel?”  
“I can book you a room, Bev, I’m staying downtown. Just get that flight booked.”  
“You’re sweet, I’ll pay you back-”  
“No need, really!”  
“Benny, I’m not letting you pay for an entire hotel sta-” The air left Bev’s throat all at once, her heart stopped. Tom leaned on the door frame, eyes firmly looking into hers, “Hotel? Is that why you canceled the meeting with Quin? I got an email.” 

\-----

Ben's phone beeped, signifying the end of a call, his friend's watched his heart visibly sink, "Who was that?" "With a tone like that, probably just her boss," Stan said, reaching over and patting the architect's shoulder gently. He was, admittedly, worried too, but the big guy seemed like he was a worrywart, probably worse than Stanley considered himself. "Y'think?" Ben asked, looking up at the both of them with wide, sorrow filled puppy-dog eyes. "Yuh-yeah, I'm sure shuh-she's fine, Ben. She's always buh-been good huh-handling herself anyways. I thu-think." The Jewish man beside him nodded firmly in agreement.

The food arrived and they thanked the waiter quietly before indulging in uncomfortable silence. Bill kept a slow pace, observing the other two men at the table carefully. Fragmented memories of Bev were pouring in as they all worried for her. Her fashion sense was unique, and often more masculine then the other girls in their class. She always helped the boys get ready for dates and big school dances. Stan and Bev shared, or rather, stole each others’ cardigans and sweaters in the colder months. The ginger girl had beautiful eyes and one of the most contagious smiles. 

Bill realized he may have dated her for a short time, after remembering some rather prominent, long, public hand-holding. The brunette was always very particular about physical contact, especially anything over a minute, it had always been that way. Except for those he was close with, apparently, as he remembered being all over Stan, and even laying on or across his other friends in the group. Movie nights were always close, snuggled up and comfortable. But he could never recall feeling uncomfortable, maybe nervous if it had to do with being close to Stan. 

“Eddie’s so frickin’ warm,” Beverly whispered, fanning herself. The tan brunette boy was slumped halfway onto her lap, completely passed out. Bill looked over, letting out an exhale of a restrained laugh, his arm draped gently around Stan, who was fading in and out of rest. 

Richie, who Bill looked past Bev to check on, was wide awake, in stark comparison to his short counterpart dozing on the ginger girl. His eyes fixated on the cheesy horror movie Bill had picked as the third of four movies for the night. The young author had now assessed that no more then three movies should be scheduled per sleepover. On the ground, Ben leaned back against the edge of the couch, his shoulder leaning against Bev’s leg as he tightened the bundle around him in-sync with an on-screen scream. The brunette saw Eddie twitch slightly, his eyes fluttering briefly before he nuzzled back into position on their friend. Mike returned from the kitchen with a flick of a light, holding a bowl of popcorn, shaking in some powdered topping carefully as he walked. 

“Back!” He announced in a quiet tone, looking at Stan, who smiled just slightly through his tired daze, and then to Bev, who gave an awkward thumbs up, nodding to Eddie before outstretching her hand. Mike slid the bowl onto Bill’s lap and squeezed himself between Richie and Eddie meticulously, causing the fixated, lanky boy to jump. “Thanks Mikey,” Bill murmured, taking a handful of popcorn after allowing Beverly to collect her own.

Bill felt Stan lean into him firmly, squeezing his hand that he had forgotten was interlocked before clearing his throat. “Ben, how’s your food?” Ben looked up, startled and setting down his spoon, taking a sip of the Sake he had ordered moments ago. “It’s good,” he murmured, sighing, “I really hope she’s okay.” “I’m suh-sure she is, buh-Benny,” Bill finally mustered, rubbing his eyes to try and scrub off the remnants of the flashback. “You haven’t touched your food, Bill,” his partner said, looking up at him with a gentle but stern gaze. “Ruh-right, suh-sorry I was just thu-thinking.”


	12. Hotmail and Traffic Violations

“Richie’s last name,” Stan blurted, his head twitching to the side just slightly, “What was it?” “Tuh-Tozzler, I think, wuh-why?” Bill responded quickly. “Tozier,” his partner corrected immediately, “I knew it, of course.” He looked irritated, but bemused nonetheless, a crooked smile on his face, the corner of his lips twitch. The two brunettes, confused, share a glance before looking back to Stan. “Richie Tozier,” Ben echoed quietly, sipping the last of his broth out of the bowl. The dark blonde pulled out the laptop he had brought in his satchel and began typing away before flipping it around to face the two, the fans whirring and struggling to stay cool. Bill always hated how loud his own laptop would get when he was on a writing streak. A friendster profile, thousands of friends, outlined in yellow with a middle-aged, oddball comedian with thin-framed glasses as the picture, “TRASHMOUTH TOZIER: Running from Yourself is a Full Time Job” read across the biography second of the textbox. Bill could nearly hear Richie’s voice, he could definitely imagine his laugh. Lewd & abrupt jokes, shoving, cackling, hawaiian print shirts, arcades, and dirty sneakers; That was Richie Tozier. 

“Ruh-Richie, shu-shut up, dude,” Bill spat out, his face heated with irritation and embarrassment as his friend practically hung off of his neck. The shorter boy beside them fumbled angrily with a fanny pack on his waist, ripping out an inhaler. He was out of breath from a hefty, rapid fire scolding directed at their tone-deaf friend. “You’re so mean to be, both of you! I’m so neglected!” Richie exclaimed, Bill heard the puff of the inhalant nearby followed by a sharp inhale. 

“Shut up, Asshole! You can’t just- you- Making jokes about fucking my mom is so fucking gross, dude!” The shorter exploded the moment he could breathe again. “Aw, Eds…” Richie said, detaching himself from Bill and leaning down as if he were talking to someone younger, to be eye-level with Eddie. “Don’t call me th-” “It’s not my fault she wants me, I’m only being polite asking after her, I totally rocked her world last night.” Bill looked over at Eddie, whose eye twitched as he pursed his lips, inhaling, his fists clenched. The little brunette was noticeably tenser than usually, which is most likely why Richie kept prodding at him, trying to make him laugh. “Beep Beep,” Bill muttered, flicking the back of the boy in glasses’s neck. The other straightened up, tugging awkwardly at his hawaiian overshirt and chuckling, holding up both hands in mock-defense, “Okay, okay. Sorry Eds, I’ll quit for the day.”

The brunette blinked away the memory from his vision and sighed, biting the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Of cuh-course he became a cuh-comedian,” Bill sputtered, folding his arms over his chest. “Is eh-everyone we guh-grew up with just fuh-famous now?” He looked over at Ben who grinned and chuckled to himself before responding. “Well, what were Mike and Eddie’s last names?” Stan laughed as well, quieter and paused to think. “Muh-Mikey’s was Hanlon,” “Eddie’s was Kaspbrak” Bill and Stan responded after moments of silence. Ben pulled out his phone and began typing with a raised brow, “Those sound right, but not as familiar as Bev or Richie’s, so we’ll see. I’ll text some people I know. Is there contact information on Richie’s Friendster?” Stan squinted briefly, pulling out his reading glasses, “Yeah, a business email, I’ll message him.” Bill nodded, “Guh-good idea!”, he chimed in, watching Stan type.

_Richie Tozier,_

_Hi,  
My name is Stan. I think I grew up with you in Derry, Maine, or somewhere near there. Our other friends, Bill Denbrough, Beverly Marsh, and Ben Hanscom, are already in contact and we’re meeting up in Atlanta currently. We’re trying to find Eddie Kasprak and Mike Hanlon, so if you have info on them, let us know. _

_Hope to hear back soon,  
Stanley Uris_

Right as Stan clicked send after an approving nod from Bill, Ben snorted loudly. Both looked up, “Wuh-what’s up, buh-Ben?” “There’s an Eddie Kaspbrak in New York, with three different legal charges for traffic violations. Looks like ran red lights.” There was a collective, contemplative pause of a couple seconds. "Sounds about right," Stan murmured. "Fuh-for sure," Bill chuckled and nodded, Ben joined in with a grin and nod as well. "He looks about the same too! Just older, shorter hair," Ben said, flashing the image on his small phone screen, it wasn't the best resolution, but it was clearly Eddie Kaspbrak. “Yeah, that’s him,” Stan said, adjusting his glasses, Bill continued to strain, but that was on him for forgetting his own glasses. “Cool! I know his lawyer, actually,” Ben hummed, continuing to type, he was skilled at typing fast on the phone, double and triple clicking through the flip-phone’s key letter-sets with ease. “Thuh-that’s so awkward, cuh-contacting him through his luh-lawyer,” Bill murmured, feeling a pang of embarrassment. “We’ve got nothing else,” Stan reminded with a shrug, “Plus, that’s what he gets for traffic violations, people can contact him indirectly due to public records of his negligence, or whatever.” “Fuh-Fair enough, I guess.”

Richie skimmed over the email multiple times, lounging on the worn recliner in his sparsely furnished apartment. Not that he couldn’t afford to decorate, he just didn’t see the point. Some posters, a la-z-boy, a boxspring and mattress, and some books, mostly old graphic novels and comics, were enough decor. He nursed at the bottle of shitty wine as he tried to make sense of it all. His had begun to burn, his heart pounded as he read over it the third time, everything was sinking in. _Bill Denbrough, Stanley Uris, Ben Hanscom, Eddie Kaspbrak, Beverly Marsh._ He knew them, and even more so, MIke Hanlon. Mike lurked consistently on his social media, and attended multiple shows. They interacted frequently over Friendster. What happened? His hand continued to burn, so he set down the bottle to look, an old scar was irritated, puffy. “What the fuck?” he breathed in quick puffs, chest heaving. His vision blurred and refocused multiple times, he couldn’t tell if it was the booze, confusion, or the impending sense of anxiety, but it was making him naseaus as fuck. He clicked the reply button, he felt he was more-than-obligated.

 **Ping**. Stan blinked a couple times, looking back at his hotmail messages to see a reply from Richie, “Wow, someone just lives in their inbox.” “Buh-be nice, I’m gluh-glad he responded fast.” Bill retorted, squinting at the screen at the strain began to pound at his head, “Cuh-can you read it?” “Mhm,” Stan cleared his throat, “Stan the Man,” he began, his head jerking slightly with an irritated twitch. “I definitely remember those names. Mike is actually still in contact with me, but I had no idea we used to know each other, we never talked long enough for memories to come back, but they sure are making an appearance now. I’ll book my flight, here’s my number. I’ll email Mike.”

_Great! Let us know, you can send him my email too if you want._

Stan exhaled quietly and blinked a couple times while Bill found himself staring, like he always did. “This is all so fast,” The dark blonde murmured, “I’m excited, but, I’m kind of anxious as well.” “Anxious?” Ben echoed, putting down his phone, it continued to buzz away on his thigh. The editor shifted uncomfortably in his seat, sliding his hand over to interlock fingers again with his partner. “I was always an outsider, I know I had to be and now all of you are leading successful, exciting lives, what if—” Bill squeezed his hand firmly and interrupted, shaking his head, “Wuh-we were all outsuh-siders, Stanley.” Ben nodded as Bill brushed his thumb over Stan’s knuckles, the man in the cardigan shook just slightly, tracing the grain of the table with his free hand. The young author could see tears forming at his waterline as he spoke up again, “What if you all outgrew me?” 

Bill's heart ached heavily as he reached for Stan’s face, pulling him into his chest and running fingers through his hair. “Stan we duh-didn’t out gruh-grow you,” he whispered hoarsely, swallowing back his own tears with a dry throat. “Once a Loser, always fucking will be,” Ben added, Stan stifled a congested laugh, “You remembered that too, huh?”

Mike read the email, over and over. His eyes were becoming sore from just how long he had been ogling the screen nearly unblinking. His heart rate was pounding. Was this real? After all the years alone, the only one to remember anything. Was this real? 

_Hey Michael (or I guess you prefer Mike, you could of told me that earlier lol),_

_I haven’t shot you an email in a while, but I think there’s something I need to bring up ASAP. I just got contacted by Stanley Uris (canaryuris2@hotmail.com), saying that he remembered me, you, and some other people, and I’m starting to remember too. Ever think of running the fact we grew up together by me, dude? No hard feelings though. They’re all meeting up in Atlanta, and I’m close to Maine right now, so if you want we can fly together, I’ve got some flight points that should get us both there for relatively cheap._

_Your Favorite (Childhood?) Friend,  
Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier_

__

He slipped his hand over his dark hair, feeling the burn on his palm, almost as if it were fresh again, in the field years ago, a shard from the grass pressed into his skin. Slowly, he began to type, praying, hoping this wasn’t some sick sort of trap. Surely It wouldn’t have broken Its cycle just to torment a singular, now adult, Mike Hanlon, right? He hoped not.


	13. Comfort as a Love Language

The dark blonde boy sat beside his boyfriend in the child’s dimly lit bedroom, illuminated only by a lamp with a reptile-patterned shade. Holidays were always the hardest. Bill sat silent, leaning his back on the still poorly made bed of his brother. They hadn’t touched it since Georgie died, which was nearly two and a half years ago now. Bill wasn’t really allowed past the doorframe most days, but it was too late for his parents to notice they were in there. Since Stanley’s family, for the most part, didn’t partake in Christmas, he was free Christmas Eve night; he had come last year too.

Bill was embarrassed, to say the very least. Stan, his darling partner and childhood best friend, had come to comfort him, only to be greeted by his very intoxicated parents; he wasn’t completely sober either. The Denbroughs invited Bill to indulge himself this year in the drinking, Bill stopped after a can of beer, deciding it was perhaps unhealthy to pick up the habit of drinking when emotional like his parents did. 

Hot tears streamed down his cheeks, soaking into the worn, plush turtle that he had given Georgie for his first birthday. The guilt was ever-resonating, no matter how many times he tried to tell himself he had no fault in his brother’s death. “Juh-Georgie wuh-would’ve been so excited thuh-that you came over toduh-day,” he stifled, shifting his head to the curly-headed boy’s shoulder. 

Stan worked his fingers gently through Bill’s hair and smiled softly, taking a quiet breath, “Yeah? He was sweet, Bill. I always liked talking to him, he had a lot to say, opinions on just about everything a kid could have opinions on.” Bill chuckled “Yuh-yeah, he always chuh-chatted you up, huh?” Stan nodded slowly, “Oh yeah, usually about you or turtles. Those had to be his two favorite things.” The brunette laughed half-heartedly and shook his head, “Tuh-turtles and Truh-trucks. Those were huh-his fuh-favorite two things.” Stan pushed Bill’s hair off of his forehead and kissed him there gently, “No, I think you were his ‘best-best’ favorite.” The young author teared up again, a quivering smile on his face, cheeks red from embarrassment and the crying, “Even if thu-that were truh-true it’s muh-my fuh-” “Bill,” Stan interrupted firmly, running his thumb up and down Bill’s arm where he held it gently, “Georgie loved you so much. He wouldn’t ever blame you for this. And he’d hate that you’re still blaming yourself now.”

The pang of guilt carried itself back into the present as Bill held Stan in his bed, who was fast asleep against his chest. Soon after they finished their drinks and food, the group disbanded to rest so that they could meet up with the others in the morning. Stan was an anxious wreck for the small remainder of the night, and stayed quiet through the card ride home. Once they got home, He crawled into bed next to Bill and pressed his face into the man’s chest, something so familiar but equally surprising. The brunette had combed through his locks and held up close while rubbing his back as his iPod played a gentle soundtrack of piano in the background. Bill couldn’t sleep without it. He hoped he was just as comforting as Stan always seemed to be. He murmured sweet, gentle reassurances to him as he rocked them back and forth slowly, “Yuh-you’re okay, Stuh-Stan,” “Wuh-we all luh-love you,” and “Yuh-you aren’t ever guh-gonna get left buh-behind. Not eh-ever again.” Eventually, Stan fell asleep. 

Bill laid there, staring at the ceiling, his brain being flooded by memories of his brother and the aftermath of his disappearance, mostly due to the pattern of rain hitting against his window harshly. It beat like the most fearsome, awful drum, bruising his brain and heart in ways he couldn’t describe. Why did it still hurt after all this time? It still really did feel like his fault. He felt tears begin to prick at his eyes, attempting to shift and wipe them away, but it would have disturbed Stan. It dripped down the side of his face and jaw. Maybe Bill should really try harder to rest, and block out the noise of the rainfall outside, he couldn’t get hung up on rain all the time, especially not while living in Atlanta, he’d never get anything done. He closed his eyes, one arm trapped beneath Stan, the other wrapped around his waist. 

Meanwhile, Ben laid awake thinking about Beverly Marsh. He held his worn, folded yearbook page over his head as he rested on his hotel bed. His heart ached, the way he realized it always had, but now it was for someone again. Bev. _” Your hair is winter fire, January embers. My heart burns there too.”_ He whispered, recalling the poem from all those years ago. 

Ben shifted from one foot to the other as he waited for Beverly to leave the classroom. His fist was white-knuckled around a small, hand picked bouquet. The brunette had missed his first two classes going to the field to pick out the perfect amount and arrangement. They had been dating for 5 months now, and Ben felt it was only appropriate to celebrate, partly because he still couldn't believe Beverly said yes 5 months ago. Ben wasn’t the most attractive kid, not that he wasn’t cute, but he acknowledged it was more of the ‘chubby, sweet guy’ that everyone considers a loyal friend, but Bev saw more than that, apparently. His girlfriend made him see and feel more than that.

“New Kid?” Bev chimed playfully, waving a hand in front of his face as he ripped himself away from his rambling thoughts. A nickname that stuck well after Ben’s first year at Derry Highschool. “B-Bev! Hey, I’m sorry,” “Hey! It’s okay. Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick!” The poet smiled sheepishly, raising the bouquet that was carefully wrapped in ribbon and parchment paper, another slip of paper inside with a new poem. “5 months today! I had to go find the perfect ones.” His girlfriend’s expression softened and she grinned, taking the bouquet and pulling him into a tight embrace. She smelled like cigarettes, honey, and lavender, familiar, beautiful, and perfect. He held her close and breathed it all in, heart pounding like it always did when he was near her.

 **Buzz, Buzz, Buzz, Buzz.** Ben snapped out of it, the buzzing drumming at his already pounding chest. It was nearly 1am, but he was a busy man, so he was acquainted with late calls. The architect flipped open his phone and answered, “Benjamin Hanscom Speaking?” A hushed, male voice answered "Ben? This is Eddie, gimme a second. Didn't think you would actually answer." Ben heard a door click and the hum of streetlights and light traffic. The man on the other end cleared his throat, "I got the message you sent through Ferris. Creepy as fuck but it's whatever I guess," a small chuckle, "But I think I remember. And I know somethings up because this scar that's been on my palm since forever is irritating the shit out of me. We all have one right?"  
"Yeah, our Blood Oath." There was shifting again on the other end, he sounded nervous 

"Is It back?" "No, no. I don't think so, Stan and Bill just met by chance and I guess being together jogs memories." A sigh of relief, he could hear Eddie on a stairwell now. “Eddie where are you? Are you safe?” “Huh? Yeah, I’m fine, dude. Just pacing.” “Outside and on stairs?” There was a pause. “Nosy motherfucker, yes, outside and on stairs, just in and out of my apartment stairwell, I don’t want to wake up my wife.” Ben opened his mouth to respond before fully processing the statement. He blinked a couple times, disoriented. He never liked to label his friends, or make any assumptions, but he had good reason to never expect Eddie would have a wife.

\-------

“I just… I feel different,” the shorter mumbled, his face halfway pressed against Ben’s bed as Ben scribbled away, drafting more poems. “Different how? We’re all a little different, Eds,” the young brunette responded, stopping to look over at the sulking boy. Eddie scrunched his nose, irritated, “I know that. I mean different-different.” Ben chuckled, “You’ve got to be more specific.” There was a pause as Eddie shifted to sit up on his bed, squeezing a pillow to his chest, “Did you like other girls before Bev?” “Oh, well, yeah? I never liked any of ‘em as much as I like her though.” “What does it feel like? To like someone.” 

He looked at the shorter, perplexed, “I guess it's different for everyone, but for me, it’s butterflies in my stomach when I see her, my heart pounds really hard when I hold her hand or hug her, uhm, and I just, I just think I could spend every moment with her, and never actually get tired of it.” Kaspbrak returned to the uncharacteristic silence, Ben began to mark away at his paper with a different colored pen, some areas would need adjusting for the sake of the flow. “Are you okay, Eddie?” He asked after what felt like hours worth of minutes of silence. Eddie was always a talker, so the quiet was deafening. “I feel that way about someone, but they’re not a girl,” the other blurted, barely audible from speaking into the pillow. Hanscom straightened his back firmly, immediately catching on, “That’s okay, Eddie. There’s nothing wrong with that.” “I don’t think I could ever like a girl like I like him,” he added. Ben nodded sympathetically and grinned, “I know exactly how you feel in that regard.” “I don’t think he feels the way Bev feels about you, though,” Eddie said with a puff of air from his cheeks, clearly holding back a shake to his voice. “Richie? I think he does," Ben said, Eddie's face went red as he looked up in tears, scrambling up from the bed and squeezing his friend tight, "Really?"

“Ben? Hey? Fucking hell did I lose connection? I swear this phone is a worthless piece of-”  
“I’m here, sorry, I got distracted. You’re married?”  
“Yeah, I am.”  
“To a woman?”  
A long pause on the other end, he heard Eddie’s neurotic and constant pace came to a halt, “Yeah, a woman.” The tone was defensive, but Ben could hear some other emotion he was holding back, just barely. “What about it, dickhead?” Eddie managed, his voice sounding further strained, Ben felt a tinge of guilt, “Just… doesn’t seem like you, Eds. But I’m happy if you’re happy. Are you able to come out to Atlanta? We’re all gonna be here.” “A-all of you?” Eddie repeated immediately, “Uhuh.” “Yeah, Yeah I’ll come.”


	14. Arrival

Bill could feel the warmth of his boyfriend’s body leave him, slow, stiff. He kept his eyes closed, still too tired to comprehend the idea of movement. Stan hummed to himself, clearly trying to stay quiet enough that he wouldn’t disturb. Humming Uptown Girl, to be specific, a song Bill remembered him liking when they were young as well. The dark blonde’s hand gilded gently over Bill’s forehead, pushing up his air and pecking his lips against his forehead. The young author’s heart skipped a beat, opening his eyes slowly, grunting. He felt Stan jump in alarm while sitting on the bed, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to wake you up.” “Mmm.. Nuh-no, no. It’s ahl-alright, guh-good morning,” Bill hummed drowsily, sitting up and nuzzling himself into his partner’s neck, wrapping his arms around Stan’s waist. 

“I’m nervous for today,” Stan murmured, “Fuck I didn’t send them my number,” he groaned, looking at his phone, he had talked about giving Richie and Mike his number, but had fallen asleep before. Bill woke up at one point in the night and shot them a quick email, since the tab had been left open with his own number. “It’s okuh-kay, I muh-messaged them muh-mine,” The author chimed, his editor relaxed into his chest, “Thank god, okay.” The brunette grabbed his phone, opening his messages.

 _Unknown Number: “Hey Man! We’re boarding our flight in Maine, see you soon. - Rich (+ Mike)” - 4 hour ago_  
Okay! See you then.

 _Ben H: “Bev and Eddie should be touching down in the next hour or so.” - 20 minutes ago_  
Alright, meet you to get them at Hartsfield-Jackson, ASAP.

“Wuh-we should guh-get ready, they’ll be here suh-soon,” Bill murmured, kissing at the corner of Stan’s anxious smile. “Im guh-gonna get dressed,” he said, prying away from his partner’s warmth, humming to himself, Uptown Girl was stuck in his head now too. “Can I borrow one of your flannels? Specifically, the light earthy green and cream one.” Bill blinked a couple times, looking at the hung up series of flannels in his closet, pulling out the requested top, “Shu-Sure?” Stan was so peculiarly observant and aware of the most particular things. Bill pulled off his own shirt, putting on a white fitted tee, then a teal flannel over the shirt, he dug around for some pants before settling on some khakis. He could hear clothes rustling behind him, but kept focused ahead of him, trying his best to be respectful. 

“I have a feeling things are about to get ten times more chaotic,” Stan blurted behind him, making him jump just slightly. Bill snorted, nodding in agreement as he slid his belt through the loops, “I thu-think I’ve ruh-remembered enough to auh-agree.” “Yeah,” There was a lull in the conversation, Stan was buttoning his shirt and tucking it into his pants. “Okay, you can look now, but question?” Bill turned around, face slightly reddening at the site of Stan in his shirt, “Shuh-shoot.”   
“Richie and Eddie, were they like us?”   
“Yuh-you mean were thuh-they dating?”   
“Yeah.”  
“Honestly, nuh-not sure.”  
“Hm,” Stan said, drumming his fingers in a pattern of 4, separate, rolls. “Okay,” he resigned, “Let’s head out, we can grab coffee on the way if we leave now.” Bill perked up at the mention of his particular favorite caffeinated beverage, “Suh-sounds good.”

\---

Richie stepped out of the terminal, smoothing over his jacket from the wrinkles of his jacket from the perpetual slouch of his mid-flight nap. He unfolded the slip of paper he had tucked away in the side pocket of his bag, the netted one usually used for water bottles. He probably should have written on it beforehand, but he didn’t. He stepped onto the escalator, humming to himself as he looked up to find the correct baggage claim below, luckily nearby. Groggy still from the unexpected stress-slumber, he hadn’t returned to his previous state of anxious nauseous, he was simply on auto-pilot. 

“Richie! Hey? Slow down,” he heard someone shout before abruptly snapping back into reality. “Huh?” “Richie you gotta--” A huff for air, “Richie, slow down, man, I didn’t get off behind you I had to get my over-head.” Richie stared at Mike, blinking a couple times. He had completely forgotten he came with someone, he was so used to flying for work alone. “Right, sorry Mikey-- Mmm.. Mike, Sorry. I’m kinda zoned out right now.” Mike grinned immediately upon being called the first nickname, “Mikey is fine. And Yeah, you conked out, huh?” He said, chuckling and elbowing Richie gently, leaning down and grabbing his own bags right as they stopped at the luggage belt. “Haha, yeah,” Richie gave a small snort, rubbing his eyes and readjusting his glasses before spotting his luggage and scooping it up. “The pick up area is just over there,” Mike said, thumbing to the area behind him. “Cool, I forgot to write on our sign so I hope someone has a pen,” “I’m sure someone will, Rich.” 

They walked over together, the comedian leaned against a window-pane wall and looked at a suit-clad, tired looking man, currently fidgeting with his watch and looking particularly irritable. He grinned wide and looked over at friend, who looked away knowingly. “Hey bud, you got a marker or something?” the man in glasses asked, making the brunette standing near him tense up and snap his neck over to face him, “What?” “Do you have a marker?” Richie repeated, holding up his blank sign. The man sighed and held up a finger, setting down his own sign and pulling off his backpack, which rattled as it shifted. Richie glanced at his sign and blinked a couple times, _Benjamin Hanscom_ was written in neat, clear handwriting. He looked back to the frustrated guy digging through his bag, “It’s been a while, Spaghetti-man.” He saw Eddie’s arms go stiffer than stiff, “What did you call me, asshole? What does that mean, huh?” He stood up, rigid, “Fuck you, I’ve had a confusing enough--” They made eyecontact, and immediately the nausea was back in full fucking swing. “Richie?” The brunette said in almost a whisper of disbelief, “That’s me, dude.” The smaller pursed his lips into a tight light and scrunched his nose, “I should’ve known with the thick glasses, stupid nickname, and the fact you’re comfortable sitting on the filthy fucking floor. That’s fucking disgusting.” Richie shoved himself onto his feet, his head spinning, he tried to play it off with an awkward, airy chuckle. Mike approached them, “Good to see you haven’t changed, Eddie.” Eddie looked over at Mike and lit up immediately, “Mikey! Hey man!” he exclaimed, the tone held that of someone who would run for a hug, but Eddie stood stiff, holding tightly to his bag, uncomfortable, shaking from clenching every muscle in his body. Richie wanted to hug him, he seemed to need it.

Beverly watched the intensely awkward interaction between the three men and slid her hands into her jacket pockets. Some things never change. Eddie was still tense and neurotic, Richie was still an awkward jokester, Mike was sweet, gentle. She cleared her throat and huffed softly, “Hey boys, mind if I join you?” each of them looked up and immediately grinned, making her feel warmly welcome in an instant. “Beverly!” Mike exclaimed, immediately, extending his arms. She grinned and shuffled over bashfully, leaning into his chest and relaxing as she wrapped his arms around him. Mike was always the best hugger, and she meant that, it was the first thing she remembered about him. “Mmm,” she sighed, pulling away eventually, “I missed you guys.” “We missed you too, Bev,” Eddie said, giving an awkward wave before returning to clinging to his backpack straps with nearly white knuckles, like a grade school kid that was all too eager for the bell to ring. Speaking of rings, she noticed the wedding band on Eddie’s hand, which piqued her interest enough that she made a mental note to mention it at a later time. Her own wedding ring was currently on her soon-to-be-ex-husband’s doormat. 

“Right, uh, hugs,” Richie murmured suddenly, extending his arms outward. Bev looked at the pale-faced man and raised a brow before going in to hug him too. “Missed you, Richie, whenever we get the chance let’s catch up like old times,” Bev murmured, alluding to some late nights out smoking on her aunt’s porch. He chuckled half-heartedly “Missed you too, sounds good, Molly.” Bev blinked, disoriented before getting hit with the remembrance, _Molly Ringwald,_ right. “Oh shut up!” She groaned, shoving his chest lightly and pulling away, he snorted. When she stepped back she noticed him eyeing Eddie, who was typing away at his phone, posture straight as a ruler, and arms tensed up and locked into position. “Eds?” Richie blurted, Bev watched as the brunette visibly jumped, “Texting Ben, sorry, ‘was focusing. My name is Eddie. Not Eds.” Richie nodded, clearly ignoring the latter half of the response, “D’ya need a hug?” There was a lull in the conversation as Eddie ogled at him, taken aback; his eyes were wide and beginning to gloss over his hands loosened on the backpack straps and began to shake. "Oh, honey," Beverly murmured, the three friends moving to wrap themselves around the smallest. "I'm sorry I just- I had a fight with my wife and then had to hop on this flight and I'm so tired," he rushed out, voice wavering with the tears he was fighting. Bev felt Richie go stiff, and shifted to rub his back reassuringly. Richie and Eddie were always close, she was sure this must be stressing him too.

Footsteps approached them, and that's when she saw him, Ben. She pulled away from the group hug, heart immediately beginning to race, "Ben!" The architect grinned bashfully and outstretched his arms, "Hey Bev." She scrambled into his arms, he squeezed her in a bear-hug of an embrace, briefly lifting her off the ground. "Is everything okay?" he whispered against her shoulder as they rocked back and forth slowly. "Eddie's just got himself really stressed as usual," the fashion designer muttered with a sigh, "He'll be okay."


	15. My Home is in Hartsfield-Jackson Airport

The brunette sipped at his cooling, now lukewarm coffee as he stepped out of the car. “You ready?” Stan said, clearing his throat. Bill simply nodded, swallowing back the sparsely sweetened drink. He took his partner’s hand with a stride of confidence that clearly startled his editor as they walked into the airport. There they all were, chatting along like they had never been apart. Still best friends, all of them. Richie’s arm around Beverly’s shoulder, Ben stealing glances at Beverly while talking to Mike and Eddie, Eddie riled up, gesturing wildly back at him while Mike chuckled to himself. Stan stopped dead in his tracks from a distant admiration, clearly taken aback. “Are yuh-you okay?” Bill murmured, not once taking his eyes off of his friends. “I am,” Stan started, his tone soft, cheerful, “I just never thought I’d feel at home at an airport.” Bill turned to him, beaming, “I guh-guess home ruh-really is whu-where the heart is.” Stan crackled a toothy, brief grin at Bill in return. 

“Bill! Stan!” Mike exclaimed, suddenly right behind the author. He jumped out of his skin before turning on his heels, looking up into the large man’s kind eyes. “Muh-Mikey!” he responded, falling into the bear-hug of an embrace. The other’s soon crowded around, Richie was immediately around Stan who stood stiff and awkward, however, the comedian was not put off, he anticipated this reaction and enjoyed it nonetheless. “I’m so glad you guys remembered, Bill, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could—I could…” The man paused fidgeting with his hands, tears beginning to form in his eyes. Stan placed a hand on Bill’s back, taking Mike’s hand in the other, “Mike did you still remember?” The tallest managed a quiet nod, raising his other hand to wipe at some tears. 

Bill’s entire being was sore with guilt and worry. Mike had remembered when everyone else forgot? Ben cleared his throat, patting Mike’s back with a gentle thud, “There’s a nice bar at the hotel, let’s all go talk some things out?” There was a scrambling on Eddie’s behalf, gathering his copious amount of luggage before grumbling “That’s healthy.” “I was about to say the same,” Stan added, crossing his arms. “Because we’re all _so_ healthy, guys,” Bev retorted with a snort that gained a collective laugh, Stan and Eddie included. “I can fit a fair amount of people in my car, who wants to ride along?” Ben asked, everyone looked over at him and shrugged, saying collectively phrases like “whatever works,” “I’ll ride” and the like. Bill rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, “Muh-my car is smuh-small but we have the buh-back seat open, we can take luh-luh-luggage or puh-people.” 

“Yeah, seven shots,” Ben nodded, as Bill focused back in on his surroundings, too busy staring at Stan in the dimly lit bar-light. “Shots of?” Eddie cleared his throat, looking particularly irritated and tired. “Bourbon? Is that okay?” Ben replied, the smaller brunette made a noise of exasperation, “Jesus fuck.” “You don’t have to!” Ben insisted, “I’m sure someone else will take the glass if you don’t want it, would you rather something else?” Eddie drummed his fingers thoughtfully and shook his head, “No, it’s okay. I can handle it.” The author watched his partner roll their eyes, sometimes Eddie just seemed to complain so he had something to say. 

Beverly laughed and leaned on Ben, patting Eddie’s back, which returned him to his overly-rigid posture. “Are you sure you don’t mind paying, Ben?” Stan spoke up, starling Bill who was fixated on his surrounding group. “I’m sure!” The architect responded; Bill fiddled awkwardly with the wallet in his jacket-pocket. “Wuh-well, I’ll cuh-cover lunch thuh-then.” “What? No, Bill I’ve got it.” Mike retorted, the shots arrived, one placed in front of each of them. Richie kicked back his and blurted, “Well if you guys are covering lunch, I’ve got dinner.” “Whu-what? No- You—” Their ginger-headed friend cleared her throat and rolled her eyes, “Guys, we get it, you all have money and you’re insecure.” Mike, Richie, and Bill fall silent, Ben snorts and shakes his head quietly, Eddie and Stan have similar reactions. “Im nuh-not insecure I juh-just—” “Okay, then, I’ll pay for lunch,” Bev responded firmly. Bill threw up his hands in an awkward, frustrated gesture as Mike and him responded in unison, “No!” Eddie let out a burst of a cackle, elbowing Stanley who gave a quiet grin. 

“You guys are ridiculous and hopeless,” the fashion designer groaned out, grabbing her shot glass. “You just now remembered?” Mike smiled warmly, raising his glass, “Cheers? Except for Richie, I guess.” The comedian chuckled awkwardly, “Sorry, here let me—” He waved down a waiter, “I’ll just get another.” “Oh, obviously,” Eddie rolled his eyes, arms crossed. The response didn’t deter Richie in the slightest. “Cheers!” Richie exclaimed the moment his glass was filled again, raising it towards the others. Everyone obliged, Bill shuddered as he shot back the harsh-tasting liquor. He watched Stan shoot back drink with ease, “Wuh-wow.” He murmured, his editor chuckled and shoved his arm gently. “Yuh-you took that like a chu-champ,” Bill said, grinning, Stan simply rolled his eyes, “Yeah, I’m not a pussy like Eddie is.” There was an audible squawk beside the two, “Hey! What the fuck does that mean asshole? I shot it back just fine, ‘kay? Just because I prefer other drinks doesn’t mean I-” “Eduardo, relax,” Richie chimed in, interrupting the tense man and patting his back firmly. The shorter went stiff and shifted abruptly to face the comedian, “My name is fucking Eddie, dickwad. And he just full-on insulted me. Why should I relax? I want to kick every one of your asses and I just remembered you.”

“It was a joke,” the accountant responded flatly, leaning over to give the smaller brunette a gentle punch on the arm, “Unclench, Eds. Just fucking with you.” The tired man inhales sharply, gesturing vaguely, “Okay, fine, sorry. Just stressed out.” “What about?” the dark blonde inquired, turning away from Bill who gave a little sigh of resignation, also looking now to Eddie. Everyone else either shot a look at the couple or immediately looked away, they had clearly missed something. 

“My wife and I got in a fight over coming to see you guys, she was kinda pissed about me leaving last minute,” he murmured, waving down the bartender, despite his previous condescension towards Richie for doing the same, he had his shot glass refilled. He kicked it back and took another breath, “We’ve been getting in fights a ton recently. She’s always worked up over something.” “She sounds shitty,” Richie blurted, earning a glare from both Stan and Bill, they prepared for an outburst but Eddie simply slumped his shoulders. “She’s not, really, she’s just a worrisome person and I’m not the best husband either.” “Oh, Eddie I’m sure that’s not true,” Bev sighed, fidgeting with her now-bare ring finger, “Richie isn’t completely wrong, though. It sounds like she’s kinda antagonistic.” Stan nodded in agreement. Bill stayed quiet, he didn’t want to put his two-cents into someone’s private life, it seemed rude and Eddie had an atom-bomb of a temper like he often did. The shorter one became visibly uncomfortable and drummed his fingers a couple times across the table, Bill noticed Stan do the same on his lap, in a set of four. “Anyways,” Eddie said, “Mikey, you remembered us all this time? How’s that work?”

Mike, who had been quietly observing up until this point shifted uncomfortably, making brief eye contact with Bill. “Well, I’ve done a little research and I think it’s something about the town we grew up in. And what happens there. Do any of you remember anything scary or even just unnatural?” The silence that followed was deafening, but telling nonetheless. "Well, those things, they happened. They did. And I think leaving Derry makes you kinda forget that."


	16. Only If You Mean It

After an afternoon of the losers all lovingly huddled around Mike as he rambled on, taking turns giving him words of validation and comforting touches, they were starting to sober up. Memories were flooding back rapidly with every fleeting moment. 

It was a cool October night in **1993** , the Losers were all together at Mike’s farm, helping him clear up the leaves that had covered much of his grandfather’s land. “So it’s official?” Mike said, clearing his throat with a warm smile. Bill nodded, fidgeting with the belt loop he had slipped his thumb under. “That’s great you two! I’m glad you finally saw it!” He said, pulling in Stan for a quick hug, then Bill soon after. “Finally,” Beverly and Richie echoed in unison, sharing a tone composed of irritation and relief. The young author’s partner shot an icy glare at his close friend, Tozier, and gave him a firm punch to the arm, “You’ve got no right taking that tone about this.” Richie pulled his sneer into a tight, awkward line of an expression. Bill snickered knowingly, as Bev elbowed the boy in glasses playfully. 

The future comedian pulled back his messy hair into a ponytail, shakily snatching the hairtie Beverly had around her wrist, “No need to be a total shithead, Staniel. I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, my dear, dear friend.” His voice shook the same way his nimble fingers did, his face a rosy red. The brunette watched, bemused as his boyfriend locked eyes with Richie, smirking. Just about everyone in the room knew the nature of this silent debate, everyone but one. The neurotic, shorter brunette near Bill watched the exchange all in incredulous silence with a twitching eye, his wrist resting on his fanny pack. 

“What?” Eddie finally piped up, “What am I missing? You guys are pissing me off.” Ben laughed from behind the group, leaning the rake he had against the frame of the barn, wiping sweat from his brow. Stiff with irritation, the smaller jabbed at Bill’s side, “Tell me! What’s so funny? What the fuck are you all staring at eachother for?” The taller grunted awkwardly, rubbing his side and shaking his head, “I duh-duh-dunno, Eds, I wasn’t ruh-really puh-paying attention.” “Ugh! Useless. Too busy making goo-goo eyes at your _boyfriend_ apparently.” Embarrassment and frustration reddened Bill’s ears quickly, “Huh-hey, shut up. Can’t you juh-just be nice and huh-happy for us?” Eddie tapped his foot rapidly against the dirt a couple times and sighed, “I am, I’m happy for you. Just want to know what they’re on about.” He gestured vaguely at Stan, Beverly, and Richie in particular. 

Bill knew by now, Stan had told him, but in the same instance, sworn him to secrecy. Part of him was amused by the buzzing and heated frustration, but the other part of him felt a deep sympathy for Eddie. Kaspbrak clearly cared for Richie just as much, and in the same way, as his friend felt. However, he either didn’t see it or was trying to ignore it. Bill knew what that was like. He remembered that Beverly practically had to spell out his attraction for him. 

He felt Stan take his hand, squeezing it gently and pulling him out of his thoughts to hear the others talking amongst each other. “Right Bill?” Stan said, clearing his throat with a gentle nudge to the author’s arm. “H-huh? Wuh-what?” Bill responded, disoriented. “Since September?” “Oh! Yuh-yeah, Suh-suh-suh-” He bit his cheek, sighing heavily, before giving a nod and thumbs up, “Thuh-the 13th.” “That’s awesome,” Ben responded, “We’re so happy for you!” Beverly chimed in, leaning against Ben like she always did. “Thank you for trusting us enough to let us know,” Mike said, dusting off his hands and waving the group over to a nearby water pump to wash their hands. Stan removed the elbow-length kitchen glove he still had on, handing it back to Eddie who had a similar pair of a different color. Eddie took off his own, holding both sets in a pinched motion with a wrinkled nose before dropping them in a shopping bag he had shoved in his pack and tossing the bag aside. “Thanks Eds,” Stan hummed, leaning into Bill as they walked. “Sure Gaylord.” “Mhm,” Stan responded rather nonchalantly, making his partner grin and Eddie seethe. But, abnormally, the shorter made no retort, something was left unsaid between them. Bill envied the majority of his friends being able to read eachother like that, having conversations without verbality involved. Stan would fill him in later, if he felt it necessary. 

Mike rolled up his sleeves once again, starting to pump the water out of the stiff, rusted pipe as it creaked. Bill shuffled over, letting Stan go first. Stan always went first with hand cleaning, then Eddie. They were the most thorough, but Stan was always, always first. The dark blonde began to scrub away at his hands fervently. Bill watched him quietly, admiring every gentle and careful movement he made. Stan was in his own world, humming Billy Joel as he went about his routine only interrupting himself once, after wetting his hands well, to ask Beverly if she had brought soap as promised, which she provided. After sometime, Stan was done, Eddie walked over with a similarly meticulous routine. Stan stepped away to thank Beverly and Bill felt a firm hand on his back, pulling him back into the physical realm again. “You sure do like him, huh?” Ben said, grinning. Bill flushed, rubbing the back of his neck and shoving the other gently, “Yuh-yeah, I do. Duh-dunno if I woulda fuh-figured that out wuh-without your girlfriend.” The future architect shifted, standing beside him now. Bill noted that Ben was nearing his height, and would likely soon surpass him, which was irritating to say the least of it. “No, I think you would have eventually. Maybe not for a long time, but it seems like you two were really meant for eachother. You really just—”

“— Like I said before, they balance eachother out.” “Puzzle pieces meant to be together, all of us, but you two were meant to be together.” Ben and Bev said, both directed at Stanley and Bill who were recanting the fact they were a couple to the group. The two were very close to each other, as Bill had always remembered them being. “Did you two ever stop dating?” Richie asked, his voice abrupt, as he had been silent for the duration of the discussion and memory sharing. Bill blinked a couple times, shifting his weight off of Stan’s shoulder, “I duh-don’t ruh-remember yet. If wuh-we did tuh-that seems to cancel out nuh-now?” 

The comedian nodded, quietly, an uncharacteristic gloom about him, “Cool. I’m glad you guys are back together then, regardless. I’m happy for you both. Plus we wouldn’t have gotten to see eachother again if it weren’t for you two rememberin’ you macked on each other as kids.” Stan stiffened and leaned forward in a jerking motion, giving Richie a disciplinary smack to the arm, “You are so awful with genuine emotion. Awkward motherfucker.” “You could definitely call me a motherfucker,” Rich chuckled, crossing his arms and sitting upright with a grin, elbowing the smaller man beside him, “Right Eds?” “Do not even fucking start, dude.” “You’ve got to accept it at some point, Eddsie. Don’t worry, I’m not a mean step-dad, just think of me as—OW! Dude!” Bill looked back up from the wood grain of the bar to see Eddie’s fist firmly planted on Richie’s stomach. Well deserved, frankly. Mike chuckled, laughing off the awkward tension that was left like he always did, “You’re a handful, Richie and you had that coming.”

Bill looked back to Stan who snickered and nodded quietly, sipping at his glass of water. He squeezed his partner’s hand and shared an affectionate gaze in silence before leaning in to speak quietly. “Is it uh-okay to suh-say I luh-love you?” Stan pulled back, a light blush over his features, “Only if you mean it.” “I do muh-mean it.” Bill affirmed, pressing his face against the dark blonde’s shoulder with a relaxed sigh, “I luh-love you, Stanley, I ruh-really do.” Stan leaned forward, placing a quick, warm kiss to the author’s head, “I love you too, Bill.”

The short man beside Stan cleared his throat uncomfortably, Bill could hear him fidgeting with his keys. “So are we going to just not acknowledge the fucked up clown-echo-kidnap-murder-shit?” Bill pulled Stan a bit closer, “Nuh-no, buh-but I think I need some more tuh-time to process it.” Mike nodded, as did Beverly who looked particularly uncomfortable now. “If you all have any questions, you can ask them any time,” Mike encouraged, looking down at his worn leather bound journals he had pulled out earlier. Bill didn’t think he had any questions until an awful, awful thought burst it’s way into his head. “Muh-Mikey?” Bill started, shuddering anxiously, “muh-my bruh-brother, Juh-Georgie duh-did It—” his throat caught, sudden and painful. Stan wrapped an arm around his waist, gently working his fingers into Bill’s hair. Mike nodded, and sighed, “It did, I’m sorry, Bill.”


	17. Something Entirely New

The Losers retired to their individual hotel rooms, for the most part. Bill took notice of Beverly lingering in Ben’s doorway as they left, and the brief exchange between Mike and Eddie that ended in “see you in a second,” and “just need to take my night meds.” Richie was out of it by the time Bill and Stan were ready for their drive home, which resulted in Eddie and Bill begrudgingly guiding him to his own room. The shorter, Bill noticed, was particularly off about mid-way through the night after a long lull in the conversation after Beverly talked about some rather egregious nightmares. Maybe he remembered some of the bad now too, but that didn’t seem to be it. He wasn’t acting scared, just weird. Either way, the author’s social battery was at an all time low, and he was more than ready to retire to his cozy apartment with his partner for the night. 

“Well, that went well, I think,” Stan said, clearing his throat and rubbing Bill’s back gently before they made their way out of the lobby. “Muh-me too, It’s ruh-really nuh-nice having the cluh-club back tuh-together.” His editor simply nodded, leaning into him as they walked to the car. “Did you mean it, for real?” “Huh?” “Back in the bar, did you mean it?” “Thuh-that I love you?” Bill looked back at Stan, features softened with confusion and concern, “Of cuh-course, Stan. I duh-do love you. I juh-just duh-didn’t know if it was tuh-too early or too late to say it. I think I always have. I know I always have.” 

The last part of the response was firm, no stutter or uncertainty. His partner stopped walking abruptly and grabbed ahold of his hand with a wide grin, “You have a way with words, even if you struggle to say them, y’know.” Bill chuckled, “That’s pruh-probably why I’m such a good—” He felt his boyfriend’s other hand clasp over his mouth. Stan rolled his eyes, “Could you not brag about your books and just say thank you, William?” The brunette snickered against the soft hand, kissing Stan’s palm gently and taking his wrist in a loose grip to pull him away, “Thuh-thank you, Stan.” The dark blonde nodded, squeezing his hand gently, “That’s better.”

They both stood there for some time, looking at each other in the dim street lights of downtown Atlanta. The sky began to mist just slightly above them, making the sky seem to sparkle in front of the gray metal and concrete backdrop. Bill moved his free hand to hold the side of Stan’s face, who closed his eyes and pressed into the touch. “I think I always have too,” the accountant murmured, his hand shifting to hold his boyfriend’s in place. The author leaned down, pressing his lips against his partner’s gently and briefly, “I love you, Stan.”  
\-----  
“I’m huh-here!”  
“Oh, you’re on time for once.”  
“Thuh-thought it would be important to buh-be today.”  
“You thought right, come to the door?”

Bill paused, fidgeting with his massive brick-phone he had bought days earlier, “Are yuh-you sure? Yuh-you want to?” “I’m sure. C’mon.” The young author swallowed hard, combing through his hair as he unbuckled, “Okay, cuh-coming.” He looked at himself in the flip-down mirror of the driver’s seat. He looked clean enough, cool enough. Today was the day. Pulling firmly at his old, comfort jacket, a worn jean jacket with elbow patches that were hand-sown by Stanley himself, he stepped out of the car and approached the door. Before he could even raise his hand to knock, Stan flung open the door, looking much more anxious then he had sounded over the phone. “Hey Bill,” he greeted quietly, wrapping arms around the author’s neck briefly before stepping aside, “Will you load this up while I talk to him?” Bill nodded, stepping a foot inside and taking a couple suitcases into his arms, “Buh-be careful.”

Donald Uris was a strange, angry man. Luckily for Bill, he liked him most of the Losers, though he would get irritated with the stutter at some points. Ben was a close second to him in favor. However, he loathed Beverly, Richie, Mike, and Eddie, all for the reasons you’d expect from a close-minded douchebag. The brunette heaved the bags into the back, trying not to think about the fact today would be the last day for a while until he saw Stanley again. They had already scheduled to meet up in about a week and a half, but after seeing Stan every day since fourth grade, it would be difficult to say the least. Stan deserved to get out of this dirty, awful town, and Athens, Georgia seemed like a shoe-in for him. He remembered the night he told his family that he was going to University of Georgia, Stan called him needing to be picked up, most likely to avoid a physical confrontation with his father. 

However, he did let Bill know his mother seemed very excited for him. Still, Bill knew it would be difficult for them as a pair. The young author was not, infact, going to be living anywhere near Georgia, but he would be going to Rhode Island’s Brown University, and potentially using a temporary transfer program to visit the UK at some point.

“Bill?” Stan said, tapping his shoulder while he sat on the edge of his truck’s trunk, zoning out. “Oh,” he blinked a couple of times, smiling goofily back at his boyfriend of a couple years, “Yuh-yeah?” He noticed Donald right beside Stan, hands shoved stiffly in his pockets, “What’s this all about, Stanley?” Bill stood, legs a bit numbed by sitting too long, he didn’t know how long he was out there alone.

“Dad, I’m gay,” Stan blurted, taking Bill’s hand with a couple quick strides away from his father. The stern older man straightened his back, crossing his arms and glaring hot-fire at the both of them, “Is that all?” There was a pause, Stan stared at him, eyes wide, incredulous. “I already knew you were a faggot, Stan, I thought I made that clear. However,” he looked to Bill, “I expected better from you, William. What would your father think?” Bill bit his lip uncomfortably, glancing at Stan who looked overwhelmingly conflicted. “I duh-don’t care what he wuh-would think. Wuh-we’re going to go now,” he announced quietly, opening the passenger side for Stan who quickly scrambled in with a red face and watering eyes. Bill stalked past Donald who stood on his lawn with that same disappointed glare he always had, “Make sure he knows he’s never welcome back!” He called after Bill as he began to climb into the driver’s side, “I duh-doubt he wuh-wanted to ever cuh-come back, assh-asshole,” he retorted bitterly, slamming the door.

He started the car and offered a hand over to Stan, who quickly, shakily took hold of it. Sniffles and little hiccups erupted from beneath the sweater sleeves that hid Stan’s face. “I-it’s okay Stuh-Stan, it’s over. I’m pruh-proud of you. Thu-this is the beginning of suh-something entirely nuh-new.”

And it was, it was something entirely new. Unfortunately, the entailment of “entirely new” was forgetting you were dating your boyfriend of a couple years. Not to mention, feeling absolutely abandoned by people you couldn’t remember through half of your college career.

Bill opened the desk drawer, ready to pour the last of its contents into a small box. Freshman year was over, he was moving into an apartment with some fellow writers, a group he’d been workshopping with day and night. He scooped up the junk, most of it old, unfamiliar, nostalgic at best, and dropped it into the box. A folded up note flittered down onto the floor, away from the box. He grabbed it hastily, running his thumb over the perfectly creased edge before unfolding it slowly. A dull lavender, lined paper with little inkblot birds doodled in the corner. An unfinished letter.

_Stanley,_

_It’s been three weeks. I miss you. Please write back._

_I love you, I always will,  
Bill  
_  
It read, simply. Perhaps not so simply, Bill didn’t know who Stanley was. His heart ached in unfamiliar ways that felt so much like home at the same time as he stared at the letter. Who was Stanley? Why did he miss him so much?


	18. Pretty Boy Syndrome

The night was one of the most pleasant that Bill could ever recall, that of which a number was exponentially growing. He refused to forget this, nothing, no beastly clown, no dirty town could make him forget. It was so simple, but so very perfect.

Bill parked in his driveway, 80s hits buzzing through the speakers at full volume with the windows down. The musk of city air, the moisture that indicated the impending rain he despised so much, even the concerning rattle his car had started making recently, all dulled in comparison to the amount of bliss he felt with Stanley beside him. The glimpses of his passenger sider during the drive were straight out of a movie; he was so pretty. 

As the music turned off with the opening of the driver’s side, Stan perked up, out of his music-mode of singing and jiving along in his seat. “Already here?” he inquired, blinking himself back into full awareness. “Yuh-yeah, we are, sorry the muh-music quh-quit,” Bill said with a playful sigh, “We cuh-could continue in-insuh-side?” The shorter man cracked a small grin as he opened the passenger side door, “That sounds good.” Stan stepped out of the car, smoothing over his ruffled shirt collar and re-parting his hair from the windy assault of the drive. He followed Bill up the short flight of stairs to the cozy apartment, humming his music as he went.

Bill grabbed an old CD, dusty and sitting atop a shelf by his living room radio. The disk simply read “Old Mixtape (70s-80s) Converted” with “Unknown” written into the artist spot. The brunette came to a stroke of realization that the creator was most likely Ben Hanscom, who made mixtapes for the group as kids. Stan raised a brow, taking the disk and blowing on it so the dust cleared, “What’s this?” “Uh, I thu-think it’s thuh-the tracks from the muh-mixtape Ben gave me whuh-when we were yuh-younger, I fuh-found it again a cuh-couple years ago and cun-converted it.” “Perfect,” the accountant hummed, marching himself over to the radio and popping it in, the radio whirred as the disk began to spin, “He always had a good taste in music.” Track one starts, a bouncy, upbeat intro that Bill doesn’t quite recognize yet, but Stanley definitely does, judging by the immediate bouncing that ensues. His partner took his hands, humming along as he always did.

_Children behave! That’s what they say when we’re together. And watch how you play, they don’t understand. And so we’re..._

Bill caught up, cognitively speaking, I Think We’re Alone Now by Tiffany. He sang along, beginning to jive to the music on his own, giving his partner’s hands a squeeze.

_Running just as fast as we can, holding on to one another’s hands. Trying to get away into the night and then you put your arms around me and we tumble to the ground when you say…_

Stan beamed up at him with a bright grin, only pausing to fold his glasses and toss them gently onto the couch. He then wraps his arms loosely around Bill’s neck, sliding up onto his toes and pecking the young, flustered author on the cheek. The brunette grins down at him, eyes half lidded with a blissful haze that lit up Stan’s face and dimmed everything surrounding him. It was in this exact moment that Bill Denbrough realized there would never be anyone more perfect for him then Stanley Uris.

_I think we’re alone now, there doesn’t seem to be anyone else around. I think we’re alone now, the beating of our hearts is the only sound._

He shifted his hands to Stan’s waist as he realized they were awkwardly dangling at his sides. Everything went fuzzy, the music muffled. Only the beautiful man who he was so fortunate to hold. He leaned downward, his forehead resting now against his partners. Memories were flooding back, tidal wave after tidal wave of adoration flooding his senses. 

The teenage romance, the comforting embraces, late night picnics under the stars after sneaking out of the house, gentle reminders to drive safe, even gentler reminders that there is a family that actually cares, just not one of blood. Perhaps their childhood wasn’t ideal, but with all that they had, Bill could never call it bad, not when Stan was there the entire time. He remembered growing up with Stan, growing into a crush on Stan. From the moment they had met in grade school, Bill knew he was different from his other friends, it just took some time to realize how he was. And now that Stan was back, and he remembered who Stan was to him, in his entirety, everything in his life, the shambles it was in, seemed to be in immediate repair.

“Bill, honey, are you okay?” Stan said, clearing his throat. Bill realized the track had changed. “I, uh, yuh-yeah suh-sorry! I got cuh-caught up in muh-memories, and stuh-staring in thuh-those pretty eyes of yuh-yours.” Stan flushed slightly, pushing at his chest, “That was such an awkward attempt at flirting, you’re lucky you’re cute.” The young author laughed awkwardly, squeezing gently at Stan’s hip with one hand, “Huh-hey, I truh-try! Buh-but thank you, I guh-guess.” The dark blonde’s nimble hand slid into Bill’s hair, massaging his scalp gently, “I will admit, memories are flooding back, aren’t they?” “Mh-mhm,” Bill sighed, content, relaxing into the touch. Stan laughed, continuing the gentle, repetitive motions, “You’re like a puppy, Denbrough.” The author scrunched his features and huffed quietly, “I’m a gruh-grown man.” “Oh, I’m so sorry,” his partner retorted, tone saturated in sarcasm, “You’re a dog. A big old dog. Is that better?” “Mmm, nuh-no.” “Well, guess you’ll have to get over it.” If it were anyone else, comments like that would have made Bill feel belittled, frustrated. But with Stan, it was different, it always had been. Everything that man said, no matter how sour, was like music to his ears, the type of melody that made you melt. 

A yawn shoved itself out of Bill’s throat, making his eyes tear just slightly. Stanley pulled away slowly, to Bill’s displeasure, “Maybe we should get to bed, old man. It’s been a long, tiresome day.” “Buh-but you wuh-wanted to luh-listen to music!” The author mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “I can survive off of three songs for the night,” “Thu-three?” Bill echoed absentmindedly. Stan raised a brow and laughed, more so to himself then at his partner. “When you check out you really commit, don’t you?” “Buh-be nuh-nice. Nuh-not my fault yuh-you’re so fuh-fucking cute.” “Me? Cute? No!” The curly-headed man exclaimed, a palm flat to his chest in an abnormally flamboyant gesture. “Yuh-yes, you are cuh-cute,” Bill insisted. “You need to get your eyes checked,” Stan said, taking Bill gently by the shoulders, “Or maybe you’re just sleepy.” “Stan, yuh-you are! Yuh-you’re pretty and huh-handsome, **and** cute!” Stan snickered behind him, pressing his forehead against Bill’s shoulder blade, delivering a quick kiss, “Okay, maybe a little.”

Stanley did that a lot when they were younger, playing innocent and sweet when he very well knew he was attractive. It always irritated Bill, not in an angry way, but in a way that he always wanted Stan to know how attractive he was. Eddie and Bev would always hassle him about the behavior, calling it things like “Pretty Boy Syndrome.” He wasn’t exactly fishing for compliments when he did it, but whenever Bill dished them out he clearly enjoyed it. Not that Denbrough minded, he loved seeing the light pink tint his face took, the way his smug little smirk would twitch. It was like a game, a challenge to see how fast he could get the Uris boy to break his composure and melt against his arm, clingy and flustered. 

“Earth to Denbrough!” Stan said, gently flicking his boyfriend’s ear. “Here,” the curly-headed man offered up folded pajama pants and a white shirt, clothes he definitely **just** folded while Bill was thinking, because Bill definitely didn’t fold either of them, they were last seen shoved haphazardly into a drawer. “Thuh-thank you, Birdie,” the brunette hummed, “Yuh-you’re free to buh-borrow whatever you’d luh-like.” “I know!” Stan retorted with a smirk, shuffling over to Bill’s wardrobe cabinets and beginning his search.

Bill changed quickly and crawled himself into bed, turning on the piano soundtrack he always did. After a couple passing minutes, he looked up to see Stan comfortably bundled into a flannel and some gym shorts while rolling himself onto the bed. His dear partner’s head quickly found his chest, arms found his waist, and he was almost immediately out like a light. “Guh-goodnight to yuh-you too, love,” Bill murmured, kissing the other’s head before closing his own eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, if you're interested! This is the playlist I use when writing this :)   
>  https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4tSCGJ7Mqe5F1nWNuRyoVc?si=b441e7ef12584cc8


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